


Gibraltar

by floweryhanzo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Brotherhood, Depression, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Underage Sex, Mentions of underage drinking, Physical Disability, Post-Recall, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-12 19:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11744019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryhanzo/pseuds/floweryhanzo
Summary: An altercation with Talon leaves Hanzo injured. At Genji's request, he's brought to Watchpoint: Gibraltar to heal under Angela Ziegler's care, but his presence doesn't come easy to any of those already there.





	1. Gibraltar

**Author's Note:**

> Blizzard gave the man no Shimada lore, so the man wrote his own. This is my first Overwatch fic, so I'm kinda nervous. I hope you'll like it!
> 
> Art commissioned from my good friend, [@nappi](https://nappi.tumblr.com/).

 

* * *

* * *

  

Hanzo isn’t used to the sound of the ocean. As a child, he never travelled much - training and family matters kept him close to home, close to Hanamura. He used to wake up to the sounds of birds singing in the ever-blossoming cherry trees outside the castle, to the reliable sound of the _shishi-odoshi_ on the yard, and the wind up high on the hilltop looking over the city at its foot. He has very few fond memories relating to waking up, but those memories now rush through his fever-ridden mind regardless: moments of sliding off his futon, pushing his feet inside his small slippers, pulling on a yukata, or a simple shirt and a  hakama back when he was very young and didn’t have to always keep up the impression of importance. Some other moments surface along these ones: memories of lost sleep, of watching the sun rising and painting the skyline blood red. The sensation of a blanket tied up around his crossed legs, of a digital notebook resting on his lap. The fleeting image of a smiling girl, partially hidden in the shadow of the window’s frame, flashes in front of his eyes before fading into black.

Something’s beeping.

The first thing Hanzo sees when he opens his eyes is a ridged metal ceiling. He blinks slowly before he can focus on it, his eyes sore and swollen, and even then it’s only after a silent struggle that his vision finally obeys his command. He doesn’t know this ceiling. It’s neither Hanamura nor any of the thousand apartments, inns and hotels he’s slept in since. He’s never seen it before. Briefly, he wonders if it’s the cover of his tomb where his enemies have buried him alive, six feet under and sealed in by concrete and steel, but he can breathe and, he assumes, move - he perceives space surrounding him, even if not a single part of his body answers when he calls it to search that space. His hands weight hundreds of kilograms. His torso is a shapeless mass of heat, of raw flesh like a spitroasted pig. His legs burn with the fire that’s set underneath him.

He closes his eyes again, his mind too heavy to answer the thousand questions that press at him.

 

* * *

 

”Good morning, Genji.”

Angela’s voice is pleasant, like a songbird landing on a branch to greet the rising sun. Genji nods at her and lifts his cup of steaming tea in greeting. His legs hang down from the walkway, and past the empty structure meant to support a rocket launch, he can see Morocco’s rocky shoreline across the ocean. Angela sits down beside him. Her long legs slip over the edge and dangle beside Genji’s, but they don’t reflect the early sunlight like Genji’s do. Instead, they’re covered by white leggings that disappear into shoes perfectly shaped for her small feet, and she almost looks like a fairy of some kind in her loosely fitting summer shirt and the worn denim shorts that hug her upper thighs and hips. She doesn’t look like she’s on duty: she came here this way, as if only visiting old memories. Genji suspects it’s due to denial - with an upstanding moral code such as which Angela Ziegler embodies, breaking the law doesn’t come easy. For him, it wasn’t much of a question - especially considering the circumstances that finally brought him here after the recall.

”Good morning, doctor Ziegler,” Genji replies to her with tease in his voice, ”How are you?”

”I’d be better if you didn’t call me ’Doctor Ziegler’, Shimada-san.”

A shudder runs through Genji’s metal-reinforced spine.  
”Fine,” he chuckles, ”You win.” 

They’re quiet for a moment’s time, both looking out to the ocean. In her other hand, Angela holds a travel mug; the screen on its side indicates that the contents are still hot. She lifts it up to her lips and Genji smiles at her, bringing his own simple earless porcelain mug between them; Angela’s eyes turn towards it and she removes the cup from her lips, joining his toast.

”Another beautiful day,” she says in an absent voice after downing a mouthful of coffee, ”I wonder what that means for our guest.”

”I visited him when I woke up,” Genji says, ”It was not very educational. I still understand very little of your machines and what their readings mean, even though I studied to my best ability while I was still bound to them myself.”

A small smile plays on Angela’s lips.

”I’ve been waking up every few hours myself to make sure that his condition is stable. I would prefer having at least a nurse working with me on this patient, but as we are... in the situation that we are in, I suppose I will have to do with very little sleep instead.”

”Don’t tell me you’re not used to such conditions.”

”I’m not used to sneaking around. I may be a field medic and used to working to my best ability in states of chaos, but I’m not used to looking after a critically injured patient in a military bedroom while avoiding the attention of both the government and the United Nations.”

”Do I sense disapproval in your voice?” Genji asks her, still smiling underneath the plates covering his face, his enhanced and partially machine-produced voice rippling with pleasure.

Angela gives him a short look and then drowns him in silence, but her legs are gently swaying in the air, and as Genji watches her, she fights to kill a smile trying to crawl up on her lips.

”You are a bad influence,” Angela tells him shortly after a long silence.  
She picks herself up from the walkway and stretches her limbs, then looks down at him and clears her throat.  
”You know where to find me, should you have something important to tell me. But don’t disturb me for no reason, I will be working on the prostheses today. I don’t need you distracting me.” 

”I will come find you,” Genji tells her, ”to remind you to eat, if not for anything else. Angela - let me know if anything changes.”

Angela’s features soften at the request. She nods.  
”I will,” she says before turning. 

Genji watches her leave with mixed feelings.

 

* * *

 

For the next hours, Hanzo keeps surfacing to strange visions. The first begins with a sound - an angry voice - and when he opens his eyes, he sees a distantly familiar-looking woman with golden hair chasing a medium-sized, dust-coloured monkey through what appears to be a makeshift hospital room. The pain in his neck as he turns his head to watch the scene unfold soon wins over him, however, and he goes under again. The next vision is silent, if not for that same woman’s quiet humming; she holds a knee-high combat boot in her hands, and from that boot, tens of small cables connect to a laptop on a medical cart next to her. It consists of multiple interlocking metal parts and looks secure enough to cancel out fall damage from a long drop, but that’s about as much as Hanzo can make of it before a silent gasp leaves his lips and darkness takes over him again. 

Where is he?

He feels a wet rag drag over his lips, and despite feeling no thirst, only an all-consuming throbbing weariness in all of his body, he licks his lips after it passes.

”You’re not supposed to be waking up yet,” a female voice mutters, not to him but to herself, a private little thought escaping out loud where she expects no one else to hear it, ”You must be fighting the anesthesia hard. That’s not good.”

Something tugs at his inner elbow, as if attached beneath his skin. An IV tube, he realises, and tries to reach for it to pull it out.

”Stop that,” the female voice tells him strictly, and something slaps at his hand, ”I don’t want to use the rest of my afternoon cleaning up blood from the ceiling, I’ve got better things to do.”

”What... things?”

”You should be sleeping. I don’t understand why you’re so resistant to the medication. A man your size should be under for at least three hours more on this dosage, but here we are.”

A silence. The IV keeps tugging at Hanzo’s arm for a moment, but eventually the sensation stops and he can barely feel the needle anymore. The woman near him sighs pleasedly and settles back down into a chair, at least based on the creak the surface lets out when she leans her weight into it.

”There. Not much else I can do for you yet, so this will have to do.”

He’s drifting out quickly again.

”Let your body rest.”

He complies.

 

* * *

 

Winston sits beside the table with his finger deep inside what must be his third jar of peanut butter that day. Genji examines him curiously, but the gorilla doesn’t seem to pay attention to him. His clean hand, the one that occasionally holds the jar to keep it steady as he cleans out the insides, now turns the page of a notebook full of complicated blueprints and calculations. Genji can’t say he understands much of it. He’s never been one for schematics. 

They both lift their heads when Angela enters, however. She looks pale despite the overpowering sunlight of Europe’s southernmost point, and Genji makes a note to himself to drag her out of her chambers more often when his brother’s condition stabilizes. There’s a streak of grease over her cheek, but her hands look flawless: she wears gloves when working with the prostheses, and another set when treating Hanzo’s injuries, all in the name of cleanliness, yet her workshop is set right beside her patient’s sickbed. Perhaps she’s set it up to give her direct access to Hanzo whenever needed, or perhaps, Genji thinks, because Angela needs to take a damn break.

”Your brother is giving me a headache, Genji,” she greets them, falling down into a chair so that it bounces up on two legs from impact.

She lands it gracefully, however; Genji’s never seen Angela fall, not once.

Winston adjusts his glasses and screws the jar closed. He pushes it aside, leans forwards and against the table, and reaches out to put his large finger underneath Angela’s chin. He lifts it up and smiles at her.

”You know we’re here to help you out,” he tells her gently, pulling his hand back against his pudgy belly, ”You just need to ask.”

”I’m afraid there’s nothing more that you can do, Winston. You’ve given me enough of a headstart with the prostheses, and they’re not the cause of my concerns.”

”Is he getting worse?” Genji asks, trying to make his voice sound interested rather than concerned.

In truth, he’s not certain what he feels. Things are never quite that simple with Hanzo. For some reason, however, _concern_ is the last emotion he wants to express in company. Caution is better. Mild curiosity is fine. Indifference is ideal. Over the years he spent following Zenyatta’s guidance, he never managed to fully sort out his thoughts regarding his brother. He learned to forgive him, and even gathered the courage to face him, but the path is longer than the gate a man must walk through to begin it, and Genji’s barely begun walking.

When Angela shakes her head, Genji suppresses the spark of emotion within him. He’s not ready yet to find out what it would have been, should he have let it blossom.

”He’s making steady progress. His fever’s going down and his vitals have stayed stable since the other night’s collapse, but he’s resisting the anesthesia. I can’t let him wake up yet, his body’s not strong enough.”

”Ah,” Genji speaks in a much sadder voice than he intended, ”Hanzo’s restless mind would resist any solace offered. Don’t blame your medication for his stubborness, it’s his soul that refuses to sleep, not his body.”

Angela looks at him for a while, clearly not knowing what to make of this advice. For all the good she does, the matters of the mind are not her best field. She understands the complexities of PTSD, the night terrors, the flashbacks and the depression that follows them, but the workings of a troubled soul in search for spiritual calm often escape her.

”Well, as long as his soul is still connected to his body,” Angela tells him while Winston watches them carefully, ”it should succumb to the same medication as the body does. And it’s not doing so, which is why I’ve increased the dosage for now. He’s guaranteed to be under for an hour more, but I have to go back to watch him when that time is up. Until then, I thought I would get something to eat.”

And just like that, Winston’s up. He makes his way swiftly to the fridge and pulls out a couple peanut butter sandwiches, which he brings back and gently lays in front of Angela on the table. He smiles.

”I was expecting you’d come back hungry,” he says in a compassionate tone, ”So I made you something to boost up those energy levels quickly.”

Angela’s smile is genuine. She reaches out and touches the gorilla’s massive hand with her fingertips, trailing them down his thick black knuckles before retreating and grabbing one of the sandwiches instead.

”Thank you, Winston,” she tells him as Genji leans back in his chair with a sigh.

”When do you plan on waking him up?” he asks, his eyes moving over the ceiling.  
When he swallows, he can feel the artificial cartilage in his throat against the nerves of his remaining flesh. With a twitch of discomfort, he lowers his head back and faces Angela instead. 

”After I’ve made sure he isn’t going to collapse again,” Angela tells him, her mouth partially filled with peanut butter sandwich, ”At earliest, I’d say tomorrow, but the more he fights the medication, the harder recovery will be for him, so I’d rather do it the day after. Regadless, I can’t keep him under forever, so it’ll have to be one or the other.”

Genji nods. A whole new discomfort floods into him, and whichever part of him can still experience the sensation of blood flowing out of his extremities does exactly that. He’s waited for this, but he’s not ready yet; the thought terrifies him.

”After that,” he says, disregarding the adrenaline in his bloodstream, ”I recommend that you sleep, Angela.”

The doctor laughs.  
”That, my friend, I will do.”

 

* * *

 

Genji sits beside his brother’s bed. So many drips connect to his body, and his tattooed chest is spotted with all sorts of micromachines tracking his vitals and everything going on within him. Around him sit screens that display that information and more: one screen is filled with data received directly from his blood, including his blood type, white and red blood cell counts, the amount of nutrients in his body, and his hormone levels. Genji watches that screen and reflects on just how little all that information tells him of his brother, this... this stranger who shared the same womb with him before he was more than a figure drawn into the great plans of the alpha pair in a clan of murderers. They’ve never been close, and so, Genji has never known much about Hanzo. As a child, he wanted to be like him anyway - wanted to know what made him so tall and strong, so good at everything he did, so precise with his blade and so unforgiving with his bow. He always felt like he was stumbling on a path paved by this giant before him, just a plump little kid trying not to fall into the deep footprints ahead of him while fitting his own small feet into them, wondering why they weren’t the same. Their father often told them that their blood was liquid iron running in their veins, and scientifically, he was partially right. In the philosophical sense, he was as dead-on as Hanzo’s arrows. There was little warmth in their family. They lived and died following a code, and that code allowed no misconduct or room for sentimentality. Honour, not love, bound their family together. In that world, Hanzo’s sole purpose was to grow up a man greater than the men who followed him, to take the mantle and rule with an iron fist. He was to become like the mountain by which their city had grown, and which gave life to the earth surrounding it but only at its will, and which never let its people forget that if it willed so, it could lay destruction over them and take away all that it had given without mercy. Genji’s role had been set in stone before his birth just like Hanzo’s; he was to be his brother’s most steadfast supporter, his blade and the foundations on which he could base his rule so that he’d never have to rely upon a stranger not bound to him by blood. Of course, while in their clan their family was like royalty, there were other men who could have been like Genji; their father had adopted many of them to be his sons, too, although it wasn’t in the familial sense but rather a means to reinforce the family’s power and the loyalty of these few select men who would rise in power but in return be so deeply bound by honour and obligation that they would never leave the family’s side. Amongst them, Genji was simply the one who had been chosen, who had been conceived for the purpose of being Hanzo’s right hand. 

Oh, had they only had a son who would have been content with that life, and the empire would still stand. But Genji had never been that son. From the very first years of his life, he’d been the cause of headache for his mother and the pain that sometimes crippled his father after nights of drinking. Although he loved few things better than his education, he’d skipped training in favour of climbing the hills, the rooftops and the trees anyway; he’d learned to hide like the assassin he was meant to become, surely enough, but he’d hid from his parents and his teachers, not from his enemies. He’d stolen coins to run off to the arcade, and had been dragged out of there by Hanzo or his father’s most trusted men more often than he could count - he’d made the whole clan his babysitters, and then he’d escaped them all anyway. In spite of this, not even Genji could escape his fate: he’d become a warrior like Hanzo had, but he’d never felt at ease in his role. Violence was not what bothered him, it was the purposelessness, the senselessness of it all. He didn’t care for the bickerings of the underworld’s rulers, nor did he care for the power or obligation that bound him to that world. He wasn’t enamoured with the tales of ancient honour, and although honour was part of him like it was part of every living soul who’d grown from the same roots as him, he found it in things different from those that his family forced upon him.

All of this undermined Hanzo’s power. Genji hadn’t seen it at first. He’d never meant to hurt his brother, who was Shimada-clan’s spirit embodied. He’d never intended the whispers in the dark that spoke of them both as the weak links in the steel chain of their history and bloodline, as if his lack of interest towards his family’s way of life was Hanzo’s lack of interest just the same, and as if his adventures and misadventures away from the family’s suffocating demands were Hanzo’s as well. He’d been blind to these things because he loved and respected his brother who was and had always been everything that Genji would never become, and submerged in his subjective reverence, he hadn’t realised that not everyone felt the same. Others did not see Hanzo the way he saw him, as the dragon spirit incarnate, as the bedrock beneath the foundations of their house and home. When others looked at his brother, they saw not only Hanzo, but Genji as well; they saw that Hanzo could not keep his blood brother by his side, and doubted whether he’d be able to do any better by his empire.

Hanzo, of course, saw this all painfully clearly, and so had their father. And their father - he had his fingers laid carefully around Hanzo’s neck, ever present so that he’d never forget their power to snap it should he fail to be the man his father had raised. Hanzo was not yet the mountain with fire in his belly, and the mountain had its eyes on him. However, the mountain had been very fond of Genji. Despite his shortcomings, despite his rebellious nature, Genji had always held a special place within his father’s heart. It hadn’t been obvious to him - more than not, Genji had been better aware of the disappointments he’d put his father through. There had always been a distance between them, but behind the scenes, the head of the Shimada-clan had always made sure that Genji, like Hanzo, was met with the respect he by birthright and standing was owed. But unlike the peak that ruled over Hanamura, the clan leader, in all his power and honour, was not eternal. After him, the pressure and discontent that had previously been laid on his strong, calloused shoulders now rested on Hanzo instead.

And so, driven by what he’d perceived to be necessary, he had done what he’d had to.

Genji shifts in his seat. His eyes view Hanzo’s features with sharpness; he’s white as a sheet with dark rings around his eyes, like he’s all but dead already. Genji wonders if he’d looked the same as his brother now when he’d been in Angela’s care. His resurrection is a painful memory to him - while his body had held onto the last shreds of life still present within its mangled shape, his spirit had already passed somewhere else. For days, Genji had felt the void. It had been a home to him, peace like he’d never known before, and it had left him hungry and aching once he’d been torn from it. Zenyatta had helped him connect with that void again, and he’d explained to Genji that the blissful emptiness he felt was not truly _empty_ at all, but that in death and now in life again, he had experienced connection with the universe, with everything that was. With his brother, too, he’d said, and Genji had felt anger towards him. Hurt. How did he dare suggest that anything in Genji was still connected to the brother that had betrayed him for an ideal and the respect of men who shared no blood with him, who had not only  tried to murder him, but had done so with such imperfection that it had left his body unrecognisable, despite his ability to strike a man dead in one blow or less? How did that omnic monk, who, Genji had thought, had never felt true brotherhood, and who, with his metallic frame and guts of spun wire had never experienced the pain and suffering that Genji had, dare tell him that even in the euphoria he felt now that he was finally free, he would have to carry his brother with him? All Genji had wanted was to forget - and Zenyatta, who had offered him release from all the other bounds that had held him down, refused to let him free of the chain around his neck.

A shudder runs through Genji’s frame, and he stands up so quickly that the chair behind him bounces. Angela looks at him, her gloved fingertips black with oil, and adjusts the safety goggles on her eyes. Genji gives her a look but can’t find the words, so he simply shrugs and leaves the room. He picks up his pace when he enters the hall, and jogs with his head bent down until he can feel the sun’s warmth over his features again. He closes the door behind him, grabs the seams in the wall and starts climbing, and he climbs over onto the roof, and from the roof, he jumps back down onto the walkway he started the day on. He’s still shaking when he sees Angela follow after him: she shades her eyes with her hand as she peers up onto the bridge, with her other hand sternly on her hips.

”I think we should talk,” she calls out over the wind blowing from the sea.

Genji holds his breath for a moment, then lets it out. He nods, unsure and uncaring whether Angela can see him do so, and waits for her to take the stairs up. She’s not wearing her gloves anymore, but there’s oil on her summer shirt and her cheek as she sits down beside him. She lowers her legs down from the bridge again, but Genji holds his crossed underneath him, too tense to let them dangle freely.

”So,” she says, her eyes upon the empty launching pad, ”Talk.”

”You said ’we’ should talk, not that ’I’ should talk,” Genji tells her shortly, and she smiles.

”Does it make it easier for you if I begin?” she asks.

Genji shrugs. For a moment, neither of them speaks, but all that time Genji can feel the pressure inside him building up and crawling up his throat, and eventually it comes out, regardless of how he feels about it.

”How am I to look at him? How am I to think, this is my brother, I should wish the best for him, when I carry all these memories with me?”

”I ask these same questions from myself,” Angela tells him in a thoughtful voice, ”How can I provide the best care for this man, when I know what he’s done to my friend? How can I detach myself from the anger and fear I feel at the sight of him, when I have to treat him according to my oath?”

Something in Genji feels soothed by the realisation that he shares these feelings with someone. Yes, Angela was there; while Genji wasn’t, not really, it was Angela who dealt with the mess that Hanzo had left behind - the mess he’d made of Genji. Angela alone would know exactly the extent of damage and just how much of it had been unnecessary, how prolonged Genji’s suffering had been, the way that Genji himself knows it. She, while still in her own body that lacked no part and had in every other way also stayed flawless thanks to her knowledge and skill in medicine, still knew the myriad of ways Genji had had to start from the bottom when he’d finally woken up, most of his body replaced by or encased in metal to keep him alive. Then, against his wishes, he feels another surge of shock and anger - Angela isn’t just an innocent bystander, either. It was her who had shaped him not into a man, fit to live as he pleased, but into a weapon instead. Ignited with renewed rage, Genji jumps up from the bridge and paces it back and forth until he can look at her again. Then, taking a deep breath, he forces out a bitter laughter.

”I seem to harbour many more resentments than I initially thought,” he confesses.

Angela watches him keenly.

”What did your mentor teach you?” she asks him calmly.

”That I accept these feelings,” he huffs, his limbs shaking from adrenaline, ”and allow them to pass, as they are inevitable, as most other things in life.”

His friend nods and turns away. She trusts him. Right now, he wishes he could trust himself, too. Finally, he manages to sit back down.

”I’m still hurt,” he admits in a growl, ”I wish I could let go of my past but now that I am facing it again, it’s no longer that simple.”

”I’m not a monk,” Angela states the obvious, ”but as a doctor, I can tell you that what you’re going through is normal, Genji. It’s always easier to forgive when forgiveness alone doesn’t mean you have to go back to the person who hurt you. In truth, I’ve always admired you for coming as far as you have. You’ve gone well past what many others would have been capable of. Still, I struggle with thinking that he even deserves your forgiveness.”

”You’re supposed to be helping me,” Genji tells her, sounding a little betrayed.

”I’m not going to pretend that I like your brother, Genji. It’d be against my conscience to tell you that you have to forgive him. I don’t trust him, and I think it’d be unwise for you to trust him, either.”

”I do trust him. I suppose that is my biggest downfall - I have always believed in Hanzo.”

Angela lets out a small, sad chuckle.  
”Family,” she sighs, crossing her legs. 

Genji nods, and once more, a silence falls over them. 


	2. In the flesh

* * *

 

  
Darkness is the first thing that Hanzo registers when the world around him starts pushing back into his consciousness. Or perhaps it’s his consciousness pushing into the world; he’s not sure. A small, inaudible groan rumbles in his throat, and he gasps for air. His eyes flicker open, greeting the dimly lit casing above. No, it’s not a grave; beside him sits a row of unmade beds. The light seems to originate from a lamp set on a table, and when Hanzo lifts his head, he sees a Caucasian woman sitting beside a screen, its pale glow reflecting from her features. Her eyes are two round mirrors from which he can see the square source of the light in front of her, and her hair is tied back untidily, in second thought it seems, just to keep it off her face.

He knows her, he realises. Squinting, he pulls himself up in his bed, the few inches that he gains over his pillow requiring nearly all of his strength. His arms shake, and his mind is hazy and full of numbing noise. Something, no, _everything_ about his body feels wrong, but by now he feels almost used to the fact - the medication, the long sleep or coma, whichever he’s been through, makes him groggy. He can reflect on the damage dealt  to his body, and whatever caused it, after he’s certain of his surroundings. Nothing matters more than whether or not he’s safe.

His eyes focus slowly upon the woman’s face. She hasn’t noticed him stirring yet, and the monitors around Hanzo are still delivering the same steady beeping that has haunted Hanzo through the past days, perhaps weeks; he’s not sure how long he’s been here. He’s in the shadows now, set in a bed by the back wall, and she’s in the middle of the room, surrounded by medical equipment and tools of all sorts, even cables, and Hanzo’s not sure how they all come together.

Ziegler. That’s her name. With his mind only half there with him, Hanzo’s not sure what her first name is - Angelica? Angeline? - but he’s seen her in the news, read about her achievements, and most importantly, followed her career in the now extinct UN crisis response force, Overwatch. The realisation doesn’t give him any answers, only further questions. After the destruction - no, the complete wipe-out - of the Shimada-clan, of the world that Hanzo grew up in and knew, he’d gathered a reasonable amount of information on Overwatch and its members. After Overwatch was disbanded, the last known whereabouts of Doctor Ziegler set her in the Middle East’s warzones. To Hanzo’s limited understanding, he should be nowhere near the Middle East, and therefore, nowhere near Ziegler. 

What the hell happened to him? He pushes himself to remember, but all he achieves is a stabbing pain in his head, like a memory of a hard knock aimed directly at his skull. He jumps in response to it, letting out a sound that his ringing ears don’t pick up, but Ziegler at her desk does; she ceases leaning her head to the pad of her palm and suddenly her eyes are staring directly into Hanzo’s. Hanzo responds, unblinking. Then, after a moment’s dead silence, Ziegler stands up and leaves the room.

Her absence leaves Hanzo with a nagging sense of foreboding. He can’t move from his bed - another wave of weakness, nausea and dizziness has set in after the pain in his head - and as such, he can’t hope to defend himself. Again, he digs at the corners of that blackness in his memory. He remembers, distantly, a group of faceless men surrounding him somewhere. He remembers a confrontation, but isn’t sure what it had all been about. He remembers standing his ground on some matter, but not what it had been. Everything is blurry like an ink drawing soaked with water, but the most important question is whether these memories have anything to do with his present situation. It seems unlikely that he had been captured by Ziegler - the doctor has never been a military operative. Does this all come back to Overwatch somehow? Overwatch is gone, but Hanzo is still a Shimada. Perhaps someone is cutting off the loose ends.

Finally, Hanzo allows himself to reflect on his own state. There’s a weird throbbing sensation in his body, something he’s never felt before in his long years of dealing with injury. One thing is clear: he’s suffered severe bloodloss. Everything points towards it. Drips still connects to his arms, and he watches the needles idly, nausea clutching his abdomen tightly. The slightest extertion wears him out quickly, showing that his body is still struggling with recovery. He’s out of breath although he’s barely moved at all, and the very thought of lifting his arms, or moving his legs, makes him feel exhausted. He can’t do it. In fact, there is very little he can do at all, no matter what is to come next. The only thing that he is capable of, it seems, is accepting fate as it will come; he rests his head back into the pillow and concentrates on breathing.

His ribcage aches as he does so, suggesting broken or splintered bones.

The room fades. Hanzo isn’t sure if he is drifting back into unconsciousness, or if he is simply too weak to feel the passage of time as he usually would, but he feels like it has been simultaneously no more than a minute and perhaps longer than a full day after Ziegler left the room that someone enters it again. He wants to look, but his head seems to be filled with lead, and he can’t lift it again, so he stays still, his skin tingling with the anticipation of _something_ to happen.

He hears soft steps agains the floor, and something else, like the movements of an omnic, and he wonders if one had been sent by Ziegler to do something to him. Then he hears the sound of a chair creaking as weight settles on it, and feels the mattress dip underneath him as something leans into it. He opens his eyes and forces his head to turn.

For a moment, he feels as if he’s stuck in a dream. He’s seen this before, once, the vision caught in moonlight. Breath sticks to his throat and he wants to let out a yelp of shock, but nothing comes out, yet he feels his eyes widen and his lips part regardless, the surprise visible on his stiff features.

Genji, his dead brother, brings his grotesque, artificially crafted fingers towards his faceplate and lifts his visor. A soft hissing sound splits the air as it moves from over his eyes, shadows still mostly covering the scarred features underneath, but Hanzo can see him looking at him, and his expression, the little that can be viewed from his mask, is unreadable.

”Good evening, brother,” he says quietly in a voice that Hanzo remembers from his fever dreams, the tone that had once been so familiar to him broken by the sharp electrical notes that don’t belong to it.

”What is this?” Hanzo breathes out, his voice like he’s risen from the grave and still has his throat full of dirt, its colours tainted and hoarse, rasping and rough as sandpaper.

It’s the only question that makes sense for him to ask.

”A rather long story,” Genji replies thoughtfully, ”that I don’t think you’re quite prepared to hear. I’d suggest you leave it until you’ve rested more, perhaps that you wait until morning, but I know you, big brother, and thus I know that even if I begged, it would not make a difference. You will not leave it, and you will not wait, just like you did not want to wait until the anesthesia wore off to come back to us. You’ve given Angela quite the headache, and I feel like you should apologize to her whenever she returns.”

Through the gap in his mask, Genji's eyes peer at him examiningly for a moment.

”You must have questions, but I suppose you are too shocked and too tired to ask them. Let me answer them for you, regardless,” he says, and relief spreads into Hanzo.

He tries to let his body relax again, afraid to spend what little remains of his strength that clings desperately to his consciousness, and waits. It feels as if his whole system has been stunned by an overload of information that makes no sense: the pain, the disbelief, the confusion, the fear all mix up into a blankness in his mind. If this twisted vision of his murdered brother can read his mind for him, he’ll be grateful at least for that.

”You are in Gibraltar. This is an old Overwatch Watchpoint, but not a military one; rather, this is a space station, meant for launching satellites into the orbit. You were brought here in critical condition for Doctor Angela Ziegler to treat after a confrontation with the Talon organization. Why? Because we were already here. I cannot tell you the reason - let us leave it at that. The most important thing is that it was considered in our interest, not as a unit but as former members of one, to respond to your situation. Yes, part of the reason is because you are my brother, Hanzo. Yes, part of it is because I wanted this. I would rather not see you dead. That is, however, not the full picture. Your actions and relation to me and our past operations are why you are considered a... person of interest to us. The fact that you were set upon by the Talon organization is - another of these reasons. Do you remember anything of what happened to you?”

Hanzo’s ears are ringing. He shakes his head weakly.  
”I have no memories of how I ended up in this condition,” he admits, although addressing this - this _thing_ that speaks with his brother’s voice - pains him, and every word brings him closer to unconsciousness, ”This is an Overwatch base?”

”Yes,” Genji confirms, patiently despite having already relied this information to Hanzo, ”You were transferred here by plane for treatment on basis of Angela’s request.”

”Who else is here?”

”Presently, I don’t feel that this is information that concerns you, brother,” Genji evades the question.

Hanzo swallows in frustration. His throat feels raw - there’s likely been a tube inside it not too long ago. He looks up again, unable to face his brother’s eyes, too stubborn to show the hurt that feels crushing in his chest and yet has nothing to do with the injuries he’s suffered. It’s difficult to breathe, but he concentrates on each inhale and exhale again, trying his best to process the information Genji’s given him as impersonally as he can, as if it has happened to someone else and he’s merely meant to provide assistance in a complex situation. Most importantly, he tries to treat it as if it’s not coming from his brother, as the very thought of Genji is nearly enough to make him wish for death.

He reconsiders that. No, not nearly - he truly does wish for death in Genji’s presence. The weight upon him is simply too much to bear.

”What has... what has happened to you?” he asks hoarsely, unable to mask the emotion in his voice, although he's asked this question before and had little success in getting his answers.

He swallows thickly again, hoping to drown a gasping sob.

Genji examines him silently for a while. Then, almost in a whisper, he replies:  
”Shouldn’t you know the answer to that, my brother?”

The words twist a knife that has been stuck in Hanzo’s flesh for years, a decade.  
”No,” he forces the word out of his mouth, ”No. I do not know the answer. All I know is that you were dead, and now you are not.”

”Has it occurred to you,” Genji says, his voice revealing a bitter undertone, ”that perhaps you did not do your job as well as you had hoped?”

Hanzo remembers it. Remembers each cut, but not as if he was behind them, but as if he’d seen them in a movie, or like they had been shown to him in a dream. The sounds of opening flesh, of wet blood, of gurgling breaths will haunt him to his grave. He shudders, pain piercing through his consciousness again, and the room fades from view for a while long enough that he fears he might not recover but succumb to his weakness again. Then, slowly, the ceiling becomes clear once more, and he blinks to drive the water lining his eyes back down before it forms tears and reveals just how he truly feels. He can’t afford that. Instead, he pushes himself to appear stoic, uncaring.

”Impossible,” he spits out, turning what he hopes to be a piercing look towards the cyborg, ”No one comes back from what I did to you. No one can.”

”No human can come back from that, no,” Genji says quietly, his eyes now looking into some distance invisible to Hanzo.

He recovers slowly, blinking before turning a clear gaze back at his brother. They watch each other, now for the first time truly looking one another in the eye, and Hanzo feels a shiver run down his spine. Then, a different pain strikes him. A deep, throbbing ache in the bones of his legs - he grunts, eyes closing, and reaches a hand part of the way down towards his knee.

”Did you find my bow?” he asks breathlessly once the worst pain has passed, his hand returning to rest on the mattress.

”It was handed to us, along with your arrows and your other belongings, yes. We’ve kept it safe and you will have it back once you can, ah - once you have recovered enough to require it,” Genji finishes with a grimace in his voice.

Hanzo wonders how much of his mouth is still there to form one. He can’t seem to remember. All that flashes into his mind when his brain forces him to recall the scene are the gaping wounds in his brother’s throat where he tried and failed to locate the artery he’d been trained to cut since before he could understand what doing so meant for the victim. He remembers his hands shaking, remembers the haze of sake in his brain, the ringing in his ears, and the taste of his brother’s blood on his lips.

Before he knows to expect it, he’s retching, but there’s nothing else in his stomach but acid, and he swallows it back down, feeling miserable as it hits his sore throat. Genji tilts his head and watches with mild curiosity in his eyes. And something else - but Hanzo can’t see from the tears in his eyes, brought there by the stinging pain, or at least so he hopes. It takes him a moment to realise that Genji’s holding a glass of water questioningly between them. At first, he shakes his head, or rather, twists it to the side to signal that he doesn’t want any, but then, with the disgusting taste and burn still lingering on his tongue, reconsiders and turns back slowly to face the glass. Genji presses it to his lips and helps him to a sip, then brings the glass back down and out of Hanzo’s view.

”I’ve been where you are now,” he tells Hanzo in a distant voice, ”and the only thing I can tell you is that you will soon find that your life will never be what it was before. I know you think little of me, brother, but if you find it in you to give this a chance, perhaps I can help you adjust.”

Hanzo frowns - he doesn’t know if it’s because of his condition, or because Genji’s not making much sense, but he can’t find the context for these words. Genji keeps looking at him intently for a moment before something in him seems to falter, and with a defeated sigh, he shifts and pulls up from his chair.

His entire body, just like Hanzo remembers, is no longer a body at all, but a humanoid machine, and the vision makes him groan. Genji squints at him before pushing his visor back in place to cover his eyes.

”You should rest now, brother. And remember to thank Angela for your life, even if it means very little to you. She’s worked hard to bring you back to us.”

 

* * *

 

Genji has gone. Angela doesn’t know where he went, and Winston hasn’t seen him either, not since he returned to tell Angela that Hanzo was asleep again. The last she’d seen him, he’d headed over the roofs, his fine-tuned cyborg body giving him the grip and strength necessary to vanish from sight before Angela could so much as call after him. Not that she would have done so either way - she understands that he needs space. After all, facing Hanzo has to be, if not downright traumatizing, then at least unspeakably painful for him. Anger spills into her veins again, but she suppresses it as she walks down to the dormitory, letting the reinforced door seal her inside. Her ears pick up the steady sounds of the monitors surrounding the body in the bed and once more, like each time that she’s come here so far, she tries to forget who owns that body, and simply treat it as a patient, a project. The patient is asleep, or rather, unconscious; it doesn’t surprise her. Sighing, she prepares a dose of painkillers and injects it into the IV first - it’s a little overdue, but she can’t really bring herself to feel sorry for her patient. He’s not there to suffer the consequences now. Another glance at the monitors tells her that the patient’s temperature is a little over what she had hoped to see. Frowning, she parts the blanket and pulls it down along the male’s body, dressed in nothing but a loose white shirt reaching all the way over to his thighs and a pair of underwear hidden from sight by the shirt’s hem. It also covers the edge of the heavy bandaging, and Angela shifts it out of the way with another sigh; there’s a lot of red-tinted plasma wetting the stumps again.

Humming a distantly familiar tune she’s heard on the radio a hundred times during these long nights stuck down here in this dormitory to cover up the now-lingering silence that reigns around her, she starts undoing the dressings. The stitches are holding well, but the skin surrounding them is irritated and requires cleaning: she wipes the residual limbs down with sterile wipes and lets them dry once more before working another layer of bandages around them. She watches the patient for a moment, wondering if he’s even partially aware of what has happened to him yet, but the male’s face is clear of expression and his heart rate is stable and restful, so she covers him up with the blanket again and moves away. She gives a thoughtful look towards the prostheses sitting against the wall - she can’t fit them yet, not while the amputations are still weeping. In a few days more, perhaps.  
  


 

* * *

 

Genji sits on a rock standing out from the cliff. His heart is still racing and the moisture-absorbent fabric inside his mask works hard to dry his tears, but he feels better now, almost good enough to think clearly again. In the east, he can see a faint line of red growing against the horizon, but there’s a mist rising over the ocean that makes it look ethereal and distant like a dream. He can’t find it in him to be tired yet, but he knows he’ll have to go back sooner rather than later - he’ll need to log his absence, ironically enough, as if he was still an active within the organization.

As if Overwatch still existed.

He sighs, bringing out the information screen over his eyes. He’s got one new message, he heard it register a couple hours before - it’s from Russia, but the name of the sender doesn’t match the message’s origin. He smiles idly at Jesse’s name.

 _I’ve decided I’ve never been that lawful anyway,_ the message reads, _What do you think?_

Genji lets his mind grow blank for a moment before answering.

”Already well ahead of you,” he tells the wind that carries his muffled voice to the open sea.  
His message gets logged, then sent. He shivers in the cool breeze.

A new message blinks into view.

 _Anybody else been crazy enough?_ McCree asks.

”Just me. Angela’s here in the flesh, but she claims to be only observing, or on a vacation, depending on what mood you catch her in. She’s not all too happy about breaking the law,” Genji chuckles, each of his words registering onto his visor.

_Angela? Wouldn’t have thought._

”There’s more to it, but you have to come here to find out about that,” Genji tells him, ”I neither can nor want to explain it over a message.”

_Fair enough. Well, I’ll be there in a few; can’t stay for long but I promise I’ll drop by to make it official._

”We’ve got canned beans and peanut butter waiting for you.”

_Remind me to bring some damn groceries, then._

The sound of a woman laughing carries up from the beach below. Genji leans forwards, the messages vanishing from his visor, and he peers down from the cliffside. An orange marker identifies two people, tourists, making their way towards the city along the shoreline. A female and a male, the information panel tells him. He leans back against the rock. They can’t see him - they don’t know he’s there, and it’s still much too early to make out his white-and-grey form from the limestone even if one of them decided to peer up at the mountain rising above them. The sensors in his fingertips register the roughness of the rock he’s touching, and he closes his eyes to feel it; the artificial nerves have always been more sensitive than he remembers his human fingertips being, and can trace the shape of the stone with all its imperfections well enough to paint a clear picture of its surface in his mind. Then, barely opening his eyes, Genji flips around and starts climbing up and to the left like a little monkey, scattering small stones down as he goes. He barely breaks sweat making his way around the mountainside, and eventually finds the pathway back towards the supposedly empty and abandoned Overwatch base nestled in the mountain’s side. No one else could make the climb there - the only way in for any regular human being would be through the military tunnels criss-crossing the mountain on the inside. But for Genji, and likely his brother, there is another way in that isn’t by flight: scaling the mountain itself is like play for a ninja.

There are no lights visible to the outside, but that doesn’t mean that everybody else is asleep yet. They aren’t officially supposed to be there, so they leave no trace of themselves, especially not during the night when any light could be picked up from distance. During daytime, they don’t have to be too careful: they spend the majority of their time inside the buildings anyway, and it’s unlikely anyone can spot them even when they do come outside, as the cliff above the base is inaccessible and the only way to see the base from the outside, other than via a drone, would be to view it from the sea.

The sealed door slides open in front of Genji at the touch of his fingertip. He passes Angela’s room with its partially open door and glances inside: she’s asleep, her blanket covering the bare minimum of her body clad in a plain t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and her mouth is ever so slightly open, letting out small sighs every time she exhales. She’s still got her communicator strapped to her wrist, ready to wake her up with an obnoxious alarm in no more than a couple hours.

Genji shakes, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. He moves past Angela’s bedroom, which like his own is nothing but an office with a mattress pulled inside of it, and slips inside the room next to hers. He’s brought some of his belongings there, having anticipated that his stay might be prolonged: he’s got a travel bag sitting by the wall, as well as his incense holder and an assortment of various incences to go with it, and the necessities for brewing and enjoying his morning tea all set upon a low table he created out of a regular one by simply cutting off the unnecessary parts. Beside the tea pot and the portable stove, he’s got a framed photo of himself and Hanzo when they were still young and when everything was arguably better than it ever was after that - he took it from his old room in Hanamura on the day the Shimada-clan ended, and has since carried it with him around the world. Now that he settles on his bed, he picks it up again; the room is dark but with his visor on, he can see the photo perfectly in black and white. Earlier, he had barely dared to look his brother in the eye, but now that he’s alone, he lets himself examine the face that he knows so well and which he has missed so painfully for years, and yet he can’t seem to connect it with the face of the man who had sliced him and left him to bleed out by the banner in their home, or the face reflecting all the years they’d spent in separation that had looked back at him from the dormitory bed tonight. He loves the Hanzo he sees in the photograph, has always loved, fiercely, even; he would have given his life for that Hanzo, and he would have done so gladly and without hesitation. The stone-faced, distant Hanzo who came after their father’s death... he doesn’t know that man, and he doesn’t know how to relate to him, or even if he wants to anymore. The conflict burns more bitterly in him now than it has ever done before, and all he wishes is for it to be gone, for some clarity to shine for him through the darkness that he’s now staring at.

There are no easy answers, however. Zenyatta has taught him that. All clarity in life comes through suffering and trial, not by request, not by pleading; the only path towards enlightenment is the path through the valleys of doubt and fear. Genji places the photo back on the table and forces himself to smile.

”Dawn,” he speaks quietly, leaning back and finally letting his body hit the mattress underneath him, ”will show me the way.”

That, too, is something Zenyatta once taught him: the human soul in him needs sleep, especially when it wants to avoid him the most.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo wakes up alone. His mind stirs slower than his body does, and moments pass with him barely moving or thinking at all. All he can sense is the consuming pain in every part of his body, and the pain holds his mind firmly imprisoned, not letting him go one way or the other at the crossroads to the realm of sleep: because of it, he can’t think clearly, yet at the same time, it’s much too strong to let him rest more. He stays in that purgatory for what feels like hours before he hears a door slide open somewhere nearby, briefly letting through the screams of gulls that seem to at least partially confirm to him the location that Genji’s ghost gave him the night before. Grunting in agony, he pulls himself up again as far as his shaking, weak arms can carry him; his shoulders hit the wall behind him at the same time as the motion-triggered lights flicker on in the room. He watches, panting, as Angela Ziegler enters the room. She doesn’t look at him, but rather walks directly to her computer set near the beds in a very limited amount of floorspace, and she turns it on and places her steaming mug next to it, making space between a multitude of other things on the table. She stares at the screen for a moment, once covering up a yawn with the back of her hand, before activating her personal profile with a fingerprint - Hanzo hears the system log her in, and as it does so, she stands up straight again and finally looks at him. She seems mildly surprised to see him awake and watching her, but her reaction doesn’t move past raised brows. Hanzo keeps watching as she takes a sip from her mug and puts it back from where she lifted it. Then, finally, she walks up to him and stops next to the chair beside the bed, which, now that Hanzo can finally see it, much like most other things in the room just barely fits in the space made between his bed and the bed next to it.

She bows shortly, politely, before sitting down, but Hanzo can sense the stiffness in her - he knows immediately what she thinks of him, even if she’s said nothing to him yet.

”My name is Angela Ziegler,” she tells him in a professional voice that sounds just impersonal and distanced enough to confirm Hanzo’s first impression of her, ”I’m a doctor, and I’m the one responsible for your care right now, although you are not officially my patient.

”I know who you are,” Hanzo tells her, trying out his voice.

She nods, then stands up again and walks to the array of tools set beside her table. Hanzo watches her pick up a syringe and fill it with medicine before looking at him.

”How are you feeling?” she asks him in that same tone of polite yet entirely objective interest.

Hanzo doesn’t know what to tell her. The pain is still making it hard for him to think - in fact, it’s hard for him to do anything at all, as in this position, the ache in his ribs makes it difficult to breathe. Pushing himself to do the impossible once more, he lifts his body and climbs higher up the wall behind him, then collapses against it and closes his eyes to shut out the swaying of his vision.

”I have felt better,” he confesses.

”You’ve suffered major trauma,” Ziegler’s voice returns, but it sounds very far away now, ”and lost a lot of blood. You’ve been under mild anesthesia for four days to give your body time recover, which likely does not improve the way you feel. During that time, you went into cardiac arrest once; you may feel some lingering soreness from the attempts to revive you during that time, but I doubt it feels like much in comparison to the injuries you’re recovering from.”

Hanzo opens his eyes again in time to watch the needle sink into his drip.

”I’m giving you more painkillers now,” Ziegler explains it to him, her eyes visiting his briefly, ”It should take effect almost immediately, but it will likely also make you feel a little tired and slow.”

”Where is Genji?” Hanzo asks her - he’s almost willing to believe he imagined meeting him in the first place.

”Sleeping, if he’s any luckier than I am,” Ziegler tells him shortly, pulling the needle out and discarding it in a bin nearby, ”I’m going to change your dressings now, but before I can do that, we have to address the nature of your trauma first.”

She looks at him with a different expression now, one that makes him briefly forget his brother. He fights the feeling of fogginess that floods him as the medication enters his bloodstream, trying to stay alert, trying to make sense of the ominous change of tone in her voice and the way she’s looking at him. Some edge has fallen off her anger, and that more than anything scares him.

”Do you remember what happened to you during your confrontation with the Talon agents?” Ziegler asks him in clear words, and thankfully so, as the painkiller’s effects make it more difficult for him to understand her despite his fluency in English.

He tries to shake his head, but doing so makes it ache.  
”No,” he tells her instead, ”My memory of that day is... weak and disjointed.”

A shadow crosses Ziegler’s features, and she finally sits down in the chair again.  
”There is no way to tell you this gently,” she says, ”so I will simply tell you the facts as they are. In the altercation, your legs were crudely separated by blade from the knee down. There was no way to save them, and as such, the only thing I could do for you was to perform a proper amputation of the limbs to ensure that you can recover from the injuries inflicted.”

She waits a moment for the words to sink in, but all Hanzo can hear is the white noise of his blood rushing inside his ears and the distant thunder of his heartbeat as if it echoed from outside of his body.

”With the help of the resources and assistance available to me here, I’ve prepared a pair of cybernetic prostheses to replace the lost limbs, but they cannot be fitted properly until you’ve healed to a stable condition. Afterwards, I will make any changes necessary to make sure the prostheses match your body perfectly, and then perform a minor operation during which I will connect the artificial nerves into your body so that you will be able to control the limbs and even feel with them, which should help you learn to walk without crutches, and eventually run and even perform more complex actions. Reaching this point, of course, will take a lot of time and practice, and these prostheses will never fully replace what you’ve lost in the psychological sense, even though there are, considering your background and skills, certain benefits to consider as well.”

For a while, Hanzo considers the very real possibility of this all being a fever dream. As the adrenaline, the panic, floods into him, his mind suddenly feels crystal clear again. He examines Ziegler’s features as if in slow motion, trying to run through the words she’s just spoken to him as if to find a flaw in them, to point out just in how many ways they do not make any sense, when a sudden itch in his right leg draws his attention elsewhere. Of course, he thinks as he slowly turns his head towards his knees, of course, nothing she’s saying makes any sense because it cannot, logically, make any sense. He would know if he’d lost limbs. Even if he doesn’t _remember_ what happened to him, he would have, by now, realised if any part of him had been removed. Chest aching with the beating of his heart - a heart that has already failed him once, if he can trust anything that Ziegler’s said so far - he reaches his hand down to scratch that itch. He can still feel his legs. They are right there. He can even feel his toes, he can _move_ them, he knows exactly the way they are bending as he does so.

Then, his fingers meet the blanket. His palm follows. It falls flat onto the mattress below his knee, and a whole another kind of fear hits him, one that he’s never experienced before. Suddenly, his reality no longer makes sense. What he’s feeling, and now, as his eyes settle on the empty flatness below the bumps where his thighs end, what he’s seeing, it doesn’t make any sense. He can still feel his legs. He knows they’re there. And yet - what Ziegler’s telling him, what he’s _touching_ , is equally real. The legs that he's trying to find, they simply aren’t there. Nothing’s there. Nothing more than the crumpled white blanket and the bed. He grabs the blanket, shaking, barely breathing. He can feel his skin crawling as he does so, as he starts frantically patting the bed with his both hands, suddenly unaware of or unable to feel the exhaustion that has stopped him from doing anything before now. He’s pushing through with pure adrenaline, and his heartbeat has ceased thundering in his chest; now, he can feel it drumming inside his brain, too.

Then, just as yesterday, a stream of acid flows into his mouth. This time, it makes it past his lips; he throws up yellow bile over the white blanket and his world goes black for a moment. When he can see again, he’s back on his pillow, and Ziegler’s pulled off the blanket from his body.

”Look at me,” Ziegler tells him firmly, one hand over his shoulder and the other pressed onto the bed, ”You need to breathe. I can give you a sedative but it’s better if you come through this on your own. You can control this.”

The blue in her eyes flashes with concern. Right there and then, some part of Hanzo registers that there’s no hatred in her, not towards him or anything else in the world; that no matter who he is, his suffering somehow still matters to her. It’s a strange thing to come to, but it grounds him, and although he’s still shaking and unsure of what is real and what is not, or if he’s even awake, he stops struggling and starts breathing more regularly.

The bitter smell of vomit lingers in the air, and underneath it, the wet, sweet smell of plasma without the copper of red blood in it.

”This is not the end of the world, or even your life, Shimada Hanzo.”

Hanzo closes his eyes. He’s spent whatever energy he’d managed to gather up so far, and whether he wants it or not, whether he can afford it or not, his body’s shutting down again.

”It will feel that way for a long time, but you will overcome this.”

A silence.

”Your brother did that and more.”

Forcing himself back from the veil, Hanzo opens his eyes one more time.  
”Did you... are you the one who... brought him back?”

Angela watches him, her expression unreadable. Then, she nods.  
”I am.”


	3. Cookie crumbs

* * *

 

  
Genji wakes up to the sound of rain. He stirs, the room now glowing softly in the automated lights that turn on around seven in the morning on the office level. He wonders what time it is, but doesn’t bother pulling his visor over his face to check. Instead, he climbs up from the mattress, stretches, and turns on the stove. He fills the tea pot with water from the bottles beside his bed and sets it over the heat, then turns for his mug and drops in a tea ball full of green tea. Then he waits, eyes drifting back towards the photo of himself with his brother; he stares at it idly until the water begins to boil.

A few minutes later, he heads towards the conference room that they've tried to make into something of a common room, his mug still firmly in hand. He chooses to avoid the elevator and instead walks the long way around, briefly exiting the building altogether to see the weather outside. Today, he can’t find Morocco in the horizon. In its place reigns a thick curtain of rain and low-hanging clouds, and between them, a giant ship is passing by. He watches it go, mask lowered to let him sip his drink, the steel that has partially replaced his jawbone warming up as the liquid moves over it. It’s a good day, he thinks; based on the light, he hasn’t slept too late, either. It might be nine or ten in the morning - it’s impossible to say for certain due to the thick clouds, but he’s confident enough. He glances uncertainly towards the direction of the dormitories, but decides against an early visit. He’d rather talk to a friend first thing in the morning.

To Genji’s surprise, both Angela and Winston are present around the table. Winston seems busy, his fingers moving items on a touch screen into two categories. Beside him, Angela appears to be at least partially asleep, her fingers still wrapped around a cup of coffee. Another pot is dripping in the middle of the table, the coffee maker standing on a portable power source that makes a gentle whirring sound as it keeps the battery inside charged.

” _Ohayo_ ,” Genji greets them.

Angela lifts her head and her hand; she waves absently behind her, then drinks a long gulp of her coffee. Winston, on the other hand, repeats the foreign word back at him with a warm expression on his face.

”I got word from McCree this morning,” he tells Genji as the man takes a seat with them, ”He said he will travel here as soon as possible, but didn’t have a clear date for us yet.”

Genji nods. Before replying, he pulls off the lower part of his mask altogether and places it on the table, fingers treading the scarred shape of his jaw underneath, feeling a few prickling hairs still stubbornly coming through along the line that marks the transition from flesh to something else.

”I heard from him last night,” he tells Winston, sipping his tea during the break between sentences, ”He sounded happy to have the gang back together.”

”I was counting on him,” Winston says, ”Of course, I didn’t know if he would answer, or if anybody would. But if I had to bet on it...”

”Any word from Oxton yet?” Genji asks - he knows how close the relationship between Tracer and the gorilla has grown, and also that she was the first to respond to the recall; it seems unlikely she’d change her mind, and yet, she isn’t here with them.

Winston smiles cryptically.  
”Oh, I wouldn’t be worried,” he says, then pushes an unmarked brown paper bag towards Genji.  
”Take a cookie.”

Genji complies. Then he turns towards Angela, whose eyes have fixated upon the surface of the table, unseeing, uncaring. He touches her arm and smiles.

”Angela?”

Angela blinks.

”I know I ask this every morning, but -”

”How is Hanzo?” she finishes for him, one half of her mouth finding the strength to curve up, ”Sleeping. I gave him a mild dose of a slow-acting sedative to help him cope with the news when he wakes up.”

”Did you tell him?” Genji asks her, anxiety stirring in the pit of his stomach.

”I did,” Angela confirms, ”His reaction was very similar to yours.”

Genji doesn’t feel too surprised. Truthfully, he can imagine few other ways to finding one’s own body changed in such a dramatic manner.

”Did you tell him about the prostheses?”

Angela shrugs.  
”I did, but I think he missed that part.”

”I don’t think he’ll like it. He might even outright refuse to let you fit them. Seeing me this way seems to be difficult enough for him - I doubt he wants to participate.”

”Well,” Angela scoffs, ”He has very little choice. In the end, I don’t think he wishes to spend the rest of his life sitting in a wheelchair, although the choice is his and of course that would be no lesser than the alternative, should he insist upon it.”

Genji tries to imagine his brother in a wheelchair, and fails.

”Besides, the prostheses will hardly make him a cyborg; he’ll remain human in every sense that matters. I will barely be adding anything inside him, and if he thinks a couple wires and a pair of sensor plates will make him less of a man, then God help all the people with pacemakers.”

”You sound frustrated,” Genji says with a hint of amusement in his tone, and Angela groans.

”I’m tired, Genji,” she points out the obvious, ”Especially of mankind’s outright refusal to accept progress. No more than a century ago, thousands of people would have given their life’s savings to access the health care that we are able to provide today, and what do the people today do? Refuse it, because of their primitive fear of change.”

Again, Winston is watching the two of them fight with an expression of slight concern on his face. Genji reaches his hand into the paper bag the gorilla is still holding and brings out another cookie.

”No offense, Angela - you know how much I respect your work - but I don’t think that as an exceptionally able-bodied individual you can fully and truly appreciate what a person experiences upon finding themselves permanently disabled, and, in the case of patients treated with cybernetics, permanently altered on such a fundamental level as well.”

”Genji, I am equal parts a scientific experiment as I am a woman,” Angela reminds him in a sharp tone, ”and as such I simply don’t understand why a perfectly effective treatment has to be met with such resistance.”

”The difference between me and you, or you and Hanzo, Angela, is that you’ve chosen to alter your body. My brother and I were not afforded such luxury. We’ve come to it through painful loss and trauma, whereas you came to it through curiosity. One of these things is worse than the other.”

Angela squints at him, but finally seems to accept defeat and leans back in her chair. She sips her coffee in a defensive manner, and when she puts down her mug again, Winston offers her a cookie. She picks one with chocolate chips and bites into it, the tension in her body fading.

”Can you talk to him?” she asks then, her eyes turning back to Genji.

”Of course I will,” Genji tells her, but ends the sentence with a chuckle, ”Although truth be told, this debate, while interesting, has been largely hypotethical. You’re right; Hanzo will come through, whether it be the long or the short way around. There is no way my brother will live out the rest of his life bound to a wheelchair. He would wither away in a matter of weeks - it would drive him mad.”

”You’d be surprised,” Angela says, ”People who end up in wheelchairs tend to prove remarkably resilient.”

”Still,” Genji says with a shrug, finishing his tea, ”After he’s had some time to consider it, Hanzo will let you work your magic. Trust me on this, Angela. You just have to give him some time to come to terms with the facts.”

 

* * *

 

Walking down the stairs into the crew quarters fills Genji with a tingling sense of nervousness. He breathes in deep and grounds his mind, stopping for a moment as the lights flicker to life around him. Hanzo shifts: he lifts himself weakly on his arms to see who’s coming. His expression changes slightly as he sees Genji, having perhaps expected to see Angela instead, but Genji can’t decipher any emotion behind the change, and he pushes towards his brother still unaware of whether his company is welcome or not. He sits into the creaky chair beside Hanzo’s bed and drops his visor to reveal his eyes again, wondering how Hanzo would react if he revealed the rest of his face - whether he’d recognise him anymore at all. At least his eyes, while also surrounded by heavy scarring, still look like him. That is something Genji himself held onto during his recovery, and still does when the self-loathing hits on the off-day; his eyes are still human, after all.

The wandering thought leads to another, and Genji finds himself tensing up. Why would he concern himself with what Hanzo thinks of his face, when Hanzo himself carved it to be that way? Angela may have sculpted him to once more look something like the man he’d been before, but it was Hanzo’s blade that stripped the resemblance from him in the first place. Out of all people, it is Hanzo who should be able to face him in his natural form, or unnatural as it now is, as ultimately, Hanzo is the one responsible for making him that way.

Genji swallows thickly, bitterly, but once the feeling passes, he tries his best to close the door on it.

”I’m sorry, brother,” he tells Hanzo quietly, ”for your loss.”

Hanzo seems to consider a nod but ceases the gesture before it finishes, making it appear as if he was perhaps just flinching in response to the words. Genji accepts it - he wouldn’t have known how to take those words himself a decade ago.

”I would ask you how you’re feeling, but it’s unnecessary, as we both know. You feel terrible, but you won’t say this to me, as you have been raised to hold back from showing weakness, and I am but a stranger, a likely enemy, whose intentions remain unknown to you. On the other hand, some part of you feels as if you deserve this, and you wonder whether your suffering is nothing but the first taste of karma finally getting back to you for what you did to your little brother who trusted you and would have died for you, and whom you betrayed. The little brother who, in your mind, died by your hand, while my very existence offends your grieving which you are unable to move on from: it is this conflict that brings you to loathe me deeply, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it.”

Genji sighs.

”Yet, if you ever get over yourself, big brother, I want you to know that you can talk to me. I’ve been where you are now - arguably, I’ve been much worse off - and I may be able to help you heal, should you allow yourself the luxury.”

Hanzo refuses to look at him. His eyes stare instead at the ceiling, as they did the night before, and Genji finds himself shocked at the sudden realisation that his brother looks uncannily like their mother: he’s got the same high cheekbones, the same masked pain in his dark amber eyes.

”Why are you like this, Genji?” Hanzo asks, his voice still rough with the lack of use, ”Why do you keep coming back to me after what I did to you?”

”Because,” Genji repeats to him patiently, ”I have hope for you, even if you’ve abandoned all the hope that you had for yourself. As your brother, I am bound by birth to always believe the best of you, and trust that you will always outdo me at everything I set myself to. So far, you have given me no reason to feel the shame in my own shortcomings that is mine by birthright, while I, dishonourably, have set the bar for your success much higher than any little brother should.”

Finally, Hanzo looks at him. There’s a flash of recognition in his eyes, only the second one since Genji first revealed himself for the first time after his transformation, but the moment passes soon and that stubborn blankness returns over Hanzo’s sickly features as he looks away again. Still, it feels validating to Genji; some equally stubborn part of him wants Hanzo to accept him, to stop thinking of him as a different person to the brother he’d lost, although he’s not sure what purpose this desire or its fullfilment would serve.

”Would you like some water, Hanzo?” Genji asks him to change the subject, already reaching for the tray set on the bed next to Hanzo’s, ”Although I recognise that you have a drip and as such don’t necessarily need any more fluid in you, drinking something might make this occasion feel a little less socially uncomfortable.”

”No, thank you.”

”Suit yourself.”

Filled with a sense of foolhardiness, Genji grabs for a glass himself and fills it, then unattaches the lower part of his mask and sets it on the tray. As he drinks, he can sense Hanzo watching him from the corner of his vision, and a strange satisfaction fills him in response. He places the glass back down but looks away from his brother as if suddenly very interested in the medical equipment littering Angela’s workspace in order to allow Hanzo some time to look at him more freely. When he sees Hanzo turning away, he takes it as his cue and turns to look at him instead. If possible, Hanzo’s face now looks paler than before, and his eyes seem wider as he stares up at the ceiling. Absently, Genji touches his own face again as if to confirm that it still looks like he remembers it, but of course, for someone who sees him for the first time after knowing him as he used to be, the view would be quite shocking. Or rather, Genji thinks bitterly, the visual of his ruined face would be shocking to anyone normal, anyone other than Angela, who’s seen him in much worse shape and now likely views the scarred portion of him objectively as nothing more than living proof of the various successes of modern medicine.

”Do you want to see the prostheses Angela has made for you with a little help from a mutual friend of ours?” he asks then, already standing up and heading to pick them up.

Hanzo lets out an inconclusive sound of distress, but Genji ignores it; he picks up one prosthetic leg and examines it curiously, bending the shape of the foot in his hand and comparing it to his own. It bends much the same way, and the material in combination with its flexibility allows for perfectly silent movements - walking with these, once they’d be connected to the body, would be like walking barefoot where it mattered in terms of grip and control over the ground surface and shape, but the plating would also provide excellent protection against any damage to the interior of the prostheses even in case of direct impact or fragmentation from explosives, which, Hanzo’s lifestyle considered, would likely benefit him greatly. In fact, the model, while sturdier than Genji’s own feet, seems like an upgrade from the body he received, and he feels satisfied as he brings it back to the bed with him.

”No one will know,” he says as he places the prosthetic between them, ”It looks like any military-grade armoured footwear, except it functions much better as a part of your body than just as a shell around a body part.”

Hanzo eyes the prosthesis suspiciously. Then, his hand shaking a little as he lifts it, he brings his fingers to touch the material on its backside. He drags his fingertips along the ridges and then pushes in where the Achilles tendon would be, causing the ankle to bend slightly in response. He pulls his hand back and looks at Genji, his expression conflicted.

”What was it like?” he asks in a careful, lost voice; ”Standing up for the first time?”

Genji knows he wants to ask more, but can’t do so without bringing up the painful guilt he carries with him - neither of them is quite prepared to touch the subject yet.

”Funny,” Genji admits, ”I couldn’t quite make sense of how to do it. I kept falling back on my ass, and I had no idea how to control my feet, not even to move them to the sides or back and forth. I had to practice for a long time, like a toddler learning to walk for the first time. But eventually, I learned to stand up without falling - and then I learned to walk. It’s as simple as trying again, and not letting yourself be afraid. The response of a cybernetic limb is quicker than what you’re used to, like exchanging the flesh you pushed hard to train all your life with something that is much more eager to please you, like an overly excited puppy, and equally hard to control. Yet just like a well-trained puppy will grow up to be a loyal companion, a cybernetic limb has the potential to become more efficient at its purpose than a naturally trained body part could ever be. You saw the results. I am faster and stronger than I ever was before, much more so than a mere man. Where efficiency is concerned, your only regret should be not losing more than just your legs.”

Hanzo nods, now holding the prosthesis again to tilt it. He looks inside it, squinting: Genji knows what he sees, as he saw the same just a moment ago when he brought the leg there. It’s hollow part of the way, shaped round like a cone, and at its bottom, three small circle-shaped metal plates shimmer where the nerve sensors will connect.

”How - would this connect to me?” Hanzo asks, letting the prosthesis down again.

”Angela will show you, but as you can see, it won’t be a permanent fix like my limbs are. Your nerves will communicate with the prosthetics through the sensors implanted into the connecting parts of your body, which makes it possible for you to control the limb. Once fitted, it should match you perfectly and have a reliable hold without any effort on your part; when you want to take it off, there’s a mechanic to loosen the grip, which allows you to slip your leg out. So in case you were concerned about becoming a half-machine freak like your brother, you can breathe out in relief now.”

”You know a lot about this,” Hanzo says in a conflicted voice; he’s finally looking at Genji without trying to appear as if he’s not, and Genji’s happy about it.

It makes him feel less monstrous.

”I’ve followed Angela’s work, you know, having been personally affected by it in some minor ways. She’s replaced a few limbs during our missions. No big deal.”

” _Our_ missions?” Hanzo repeats sharply.

Genji chuckles.  
”Haven't I made it clear already?” he asks, ”What do you think I’m doing here, brother? Having a vacation? I was saved, or salvaged, by Overwatch in return for my services. I am a part of it just like Angela is. Or I suppose I was a part of it - I left after making sure that the criminal empire that spawned me was left in smoking ruins. I had other concerns to attend to.”

Hanzo squints at him.  
”I knew you were connected to it.”

”Of course I was. Only a dragon can burn down a dragon’s nest.”

They battle for an intense, yet silent, while. Then Hanzo seems to deflate: he sinks deeper into his bed and closes his eyes, looking drained. When he opens them again, he lets them linger over the ceiling, as if looking at Genji would require more effort than he can spare.

”I would have never been half the man that our father was,” he says quietly, his voice distant, ”I always knew it, and I think that he knew it, too.”

”Our father was a great man.”

”He loved you,” Hanzo says thoughtfully, although the thought process leading to his words remains unclear to Genji.

”I was his son.”

”No,” Hanzo says, sounding offended that Genji doesn’t follow his logic, ”He loved you - more than he loved many other things. I should have learned more from him, I should have listened to him while I still had the chance. If I had been a better leader, or at least a fraction of the man our father was, none of this would have happened.”

Genji isn’t sure how far back Hanzo is erasing things in his mind. He doesn’t seem to be listening to him anymore, however, so Genji doesn’t try to argue with him. If he wants to live in a fantasy world, that is his right; Genji has learned better a long time ago. Thinking about all the ways things could have been different does nothing to change the course of history, but perhaps for Hanzo, grieving the past is easier than grieving the present. With that in mind, Genji picks up the prosthesis and brings it back to its pair. After returning, he doesn’t sit down again.

”I should go now to let you rest. I hope you do that.”

His eyes flicker towards a screen displaying the names of various medications, each with its own slowly decaying indicator, and wonders if Angela has managed to take a nap between the doses yet.

”Genji?”

”Yes, brother?”

”You said you were saved in exchange for your services. What is my price?”

Genji looks at Hanzo for a moment. He hasn’t thought about that.  
”I don’t know,” he says then, quite truthfully, ”You were brought here because you were considered a risk. Perhaps there is no catch.”

He chuckles, shaking his head.

”No,” he continues then, ”There is always a catch. But trust me, brother, we haven’t figured it out any more than you have yet. Right now, you are a guest in a rogue organization’s headquarters, watching history unfold from the sidelines. I hope that you will enjoy your stay.”

With that, he turns and leaves.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After Genji, the room grows unbearably quiet. No outside sound can pierce the thick bunker-like walls of it, and inside, as the lights slowly fade out again with no one there to trigger the sensors, the beeping and buzzing of the machines hooked up to Hanzo’s body are the only source of stimulation for him. Without them, he wonders if he’d feel as if trapped inside a sensory deprivation tank, but even with them around, a sense of claustrophobia starts crawling in.

All he can feel, all he can think of, is his body. Not the aches of it, not the weakness of it, but the incompleteness of it. He can’t stop focusing on the feeling in his legs that he now knows are no longer there, and each passing moment makes him grow more desperate. He’d laugh if his sore throat would easily produce a sound: it seems that the downward spiral of his life truly has no rock bottom that he could hit. If life seemed pointless before now, then how can he still be drawing breath at all now? Why does it all not cease with the lack of purpose, simply abort itself when it no longer serves a function in the world? How can his heart still be beating, when all it does is waste energy? A redundant part of a machine will simply remain inactivated, dead to the design around it. But Hanzo’s been cursed with the part of a living entity whose biology, regardless of whether its existence is necessary or even sustainable, will selfishly attempt to pursue self-preservance over all other things. If he had his blade, he’d cut himself from this world right here and now, end the drifting and the shame that reminds him of every wrong choice that led him to this point, but of course he doesn’t have it. As far as he knows, it’s still in Hanamura, half a globe away from him, now that he finally feels capable of wielding it again. It seems fitting, so fitting that the impossibility of taking action causes a physical ache inside Hanzo, that he would end his life with the same blade that first cursed him for all eternity.

He can barely breathe from the pressure building inside him. He can’t stand to be inside his skin, but even less he can stand the memory of Genji there by his bedside, or his casual kindness, his displays of forgiveness and the will to fix something that is unfixable, with a man who is well beyond any shred of redemption. Hanzo wants to be angry at him for being that naïve despite everything that should have taught him otherwise, but all he can feel is grief, and that grief in combination with the hopelessness already filling him up like an infection in his bloodstream makes each breath he draws a struggle. Some childish part of Hanzo wants to cry; it desperately wishes for the safety and sensation of drawing up into a small ball and sobbing until the pain eases. But he hasn’t cried in years, and even if he wanted to, even if that was an option he still deserved to have, he wouldn’t be able to. He’s not sure whether it’s his body or his mind that shut down his ability to do so, but one way or another, his eyes will not wet and even if they do, the rest simply does not follow.

When the lights finally flicker alive again, all Hanzo wants is for them to go out. The misery that clutches him is so deep that he can’t bear to face another human being, no matter who it will be - he doesn’t think he can push himself to produce so much as a response to a greeting, much less answer a question. The footsteps are lighter than Genji’s, and by the time Angela Ziegler stands by his bedside administering another injection into his drip, Hanzo knew to expect her. He wants to pretend sleep but the very thought of lying there in a mockery of rest fills him with unease, so he simply chooses to look away from her in the hopes that she won’t feel the need to make conversation.

”If you need to use the bathroom,” Ziegler says anyway, the needle still inside the drip, ”just let me know. It’s not far and I think you’re stable enough to leave the bed for a minute or two if you have to.”

She pulls the syringe out and discards it: the trash can lets out a whirring sound as it sucks its contents into a vacuum. What Hanzo doesn’t expect is the weight of her body settling at the foot of his bed. He tenses in response to it, and a small gasp catches in his throat.

”I know you don’t want to talk, but I have to go through a couple things with you. Firstly, I want to know how you’re doing.”

Hanzo wants to tell her he’s fine, but no matter how he tries to phrase it, it sounds equally ridiculous and redundant, and the silence after the statement grows long. Finally, Ziegler sighs.

”I suppose there isn’t a more honest way to put it. Which brings me to the next subject I want to discuss with you. I would like to prescribe you antidepressants, just to be on the safe side. You’ve been through a major traumatic event, and depression is almost inevitable in the aftermath, only the degree to which it will be present depends from patient to patient. Medication would help you adjust and concentrate on recovery.”

”If depression is the natural consequence of trauma, perhaps it should be allowed to run its course.”

”If infection is the natural consequence of an open wound...”

Hanzo closes his eyes.

”Consider it,” Ziegler tells him, ”I can only give you my advice, the choice is yours.”

She stands up again.

”Would you like a cup of coffee and some yoghurt?” she asks him casually, like she hasn’t planned this question at all, ”Maybe some tea?”

Another question that Hanzo doesn’t know how to answer. His eyes open slowly, and for a while he stares down at the row of beds to the left of him. Then, sighing, he pulls himself up in the bed until his back knocks against the wall, trying hard not to pay attention to the way his thighs drag along the mattress. Ziegler sits on her desk, and for the first time Hanzo pays attention to what she’s wearing: she looks... normal. For certain, she doesn’t look like a doctor and she doesn’t look like the member of what Genji described as a rogue organization - instead, she looks just about ready to go jogging in her white top, light grey sweatpants and her hair tied back. She’s got her legs crossed, one foot resting on the floor and the other dangling in the air, and next to her on the table is a paper bag with the top of a thermos showing past its edges.

”I would like to know what my purpose here is,” Hanzo tells her.

”We could discuss that over breakfast, although - it is a little late for breakfast,” she says, then adds in a murmur: ”I’m getting too old for this.”

She pulls out the thermos and two paper cups still stuck to each other. Pulling them apart, she offers one towards Hanzo. Shortly, Hanzo nods; he doesn’t feel like drinking or eating anything at all, but if it’ll get him answers, he’s prepared to try. Ziegler fills up his cup with black coffee.

”Milk or sweetener?”

Hanzo shakes his head. Ziegler nods, slides off the table and walks to hand him his cup: he only realises how cold his fingertips feel when he wraps them around it. She returns to the same spot she left, despite there being an abundance of beds and a couple chairs to sit on instead, and picks up a cup of yoghurt from the bag before pouring herself some coffee as well. Hanzo watches her mix in some almond milk and sweetener before she finally seems satisfied and turns back towards him, the cup briefly over her lips as she takes the first sip.

”Your purpose?” she repeats.

Hanzo nods. Out of politeness, he tries his coffee too. It’s too hot to drink.

”You were brought here at my request,” she tells him, ”which I relayed to the hospital that picked you up soon after I learned about the situation. Before I did so, I consulted your brother, who also thought that it would be best to have you treated here; his word, being that he is your only remaining family, also mattered in the decision the hospital made in releasing you into my care. I must admit I’m a little understaffed, but the high end equipment of this facility allows me to ensure that despite that, you’re still receiving the same help you would have gotten under less secure conditions. You were brought here by an unmanned plane controlled by us, so no one else knows where you are.”

”What do you want from me?”

”At the moment, only that you survive. Call it a personal stake on my and your brother’s behalf.”

”At the moment,” Hanzo repeats.  
He tries his coffee again just to have something for his body to do. Ziegler nods and drinks with him.

”Perhaps on a later date you can share with us some details about what happened between you and the Talon organization. Personally, I don’t think you will recall much - shock has a funny effect on memory.”

”What use is this information to you? And who are _you_ \- this plural that you refer to?”

Ziegler squints at him. Then she turns to pull off the lid covering her yoghurt, sticks a plastic spoon in it, and eats some in thoughtful silence. Hanzo doesn’t let his eyes off her.

”How much has Genji told you about the present situation?”

Lying to her would be the easiest way around it, but Hanzo has no proof to back up a claim.  
”Nothing,” he lets out in a gruff voice, ”He has implied that your - our - presence here is unauthorized, but beyond this, I know nothing.”

”It must be frustrating.”

Their eyes meet, and Hanzo wonders if she enjoys this. Despite the care she shows him as a patient, it’s still clear as day that she doesn’t like him, and if she really was the one who rebuilt Genji after... _after,_ then Hanzo doesn’t blame her in the least.

”Truth be told, I cannot tell you much, either. You likely understand - while you are certainly a concerned party, what goes on between other people in this base is none of your business, and sharing details about what we do or why we are here in the first place would compromise security and safety for everyone involved, including yourself. The less you know, the better it is for everyone.”

”How many others are here?”

”A changing number of individuals. I cannot give you the exact details.”

”How many of them know about me?”

”At this time, a small group within the number that has access to this base, and no one else. In short, the people who were involved in bringing you here. Myself and Genji, and one other party.”

Hanzo nods. They continue this strange afternoon breakfast in silence for a while longer.

”Asking questions is allowed, you know,” Ziegler tells him then - he raises his head and examines her over his coffee, which now finally seems fit for drinking, ”We aren’t holding you as a prisoner, and once you’ve healed, we have neither the will nor the authority to keep you here. Of course, your situation makes it a little hard for you to leave on a whim, but when you wish to go, we will make sure that you can. In fact, I don’t think it would be possible for you to stay here even in the unlikely situation that you would prefer to do so. Does the information I’ve given you at least satisfy your curiosity?”

Again, Hanzo nods; her story holds up with what Genji told him, and although he can’t say for sure that they aren’t both lying, at the present time he has no reason to believe so.

”Good. Now, I’d like to talk about your immediate future a little. It should be a few more days before I can start fitting the prostheses, but now that you’re awake, you’re making good progress on the healing front, so I think it’ll be safe to begin sooner rather than later. The goal is to get you back up and walking again as quickly as we can. Does this sound good to you?”

”My b...” Hanzo swallows. ” _Genji_ said that the prostheses won’t be connected to my body permanently.”

”He’s right,” Ziegler confirms, ”Genji’s prostheses are very different, as he required much more than just a replacement limb. In your case, the prosthesis merely needs the means to connect into your nervous system in order to function, and this can be achieved by attaching sensor plates into the severed nerves already present in your legs. Through these plates your brain can communicate with the prosthesis, which allows you to control it like a natural limb. For cleaning purposes and the ease of future health care, the prostheses can be easily removed; some patients with similar ones choose to wear them during the day, but prefer to remove them when they go to sleep, while many others wear them almost around the clock and even grow to consider them an extension of their body like their natural limbs used to be. It’s up to you how much you want to wear them, but in terms of retaining as much of your earlier lifestyle as possible despite your disability, I do recommend that you do, in fact, wear them.”

For a while, Hanzo watches the place underneath the blanket where his shins used to be before, and where his body now ends instead. More than anything, he still just wants to lie down and die, but some stubborn sense of _hope_ has attached itself to him alongside it. It flickers like the flame of a candle in a breeze, but it’s there, and as much as he tries to convince it to go out, it persists. He tries to imagine the prosthesis that Genji showed to him attached to him from the knee down - it was sleek and metallic from parts, reinforced but surprisingly elastic and easy to manipulate throughout its shape, and in a sense, it had even been aesthetically pleasing. If it worked as well as it was advertised to him, then... the least he can do is try it on once. Dying can wait until after he’s given life this one last chance.

”When can you perform the surgery?” he asks, his voice hesitant and his eyes still looking down at the bed. He sips his coffee, skin on goosebumps.

”After we’ve made sure the prostheses are a perfect match to your body shape,” Ziegler tells him, and he can hear the relief in her voice, ”I have to make sure the sensor plates are implanted in the ideal places.”

”And how long will it take for me to recover?”

”Not too long. It’s a minor surgery. Of course, you’ll still be recovering from the amputations at the same time, which will take longer than recovering from the implant procedure. But if you keep pushing through at the rate you’re doing at the moment, I’d hope that you can gradually start wearing the prostheses in a matter of weeks. The first times you’ll be wearing them you won’t get to use them yet: we’ll just have to make sure that the nerves connect properly, so expect some light exercise at moving your feet at most. Afterwards, you’ll get to practice standing up; if this was just one leg, I wouldn’t expect much issue, but replacing both means you have to learn the whole thing from scratch. Walking comes later.”

Hanzo lets it all sink in. Finally, he’s emptied his cup of coffee; in an unexpected surge of sheer will to live, he looks back at Doctor Ziegler.

”Could I have another?” he asks, and Ziegler slides off the table once more, bringing the thermos with her.

 


	4. Undone

* * *

 

A couple days later, Genji drinks his morning tea alone on the walkway. The rain has cleared once more, but in the winter season, it can rain as often as every three days - it would be a shame to waste the sunshine now, when there’s little guarantee when it’ll be back. Even the temperature has climbed up to a good 25 degrees Celsius; it makes the inside of Genji’s armour a little uncomfortable, but after travelling the world, he’s felt worse. Morocco’s shoreline rises clearly in the distance once more, and gulls circle around the cliff. The smell of the ocean fills the man's nose as he lowers his cup back between his crossed legs, and he closes his eyes and breathes in deep.

Indeed, such a day shouldn’t slip by unappreciated.

With the emptied cup in his hand, he crouches up from the edge of the bridge and jumps. The distance closes quickly with wind pushing against him through the fall, and he lands soon with a quiet thud upon the concrete pathway, leaving Morocco behind him.

The dormitory is lit and quiet. When he enters, he spots Angela there by her table, a large thermos by her side with its screen showing red - if she’s drank the whole thing, Genji thinks, she has to feel miserable.

He’s still wary every time he comes here. Even now, he tries to avoid looking at the bed where Hanzo’s shape appears to be asleep. He still sleeps a lot, to Genji’s relief, and it’s often easy to sneak there to talk to Angela without having to face him at the same time. It won’t stay that way forever, but for now, Genji’s thankful for it.

Tensely, Angela lifts her eyes from the screen ahead of her and turns towards him. She’s pale with dark shadows under her eyes, and Genji’s almost certain she’s worn her pajamas for the past three days straight without ever changing into her day gear. There’s a coffee stain over the collar of her spaghetti string top.

”You didn’t meet me up this morning,” Genji says to her gently, ”I was worried.”

”Is it that time already?” Angela asks - she sounds genuinely surprised.

”It was,” Genji answers, ”And it is no more. Are you doing alright?”

Angela nods.  
”I took off the drips tonight,” she tells him, gesturing vaguely towards Hanzo with her head, ”He’s strong enough to do without them. I’ve also lowered the dose of the painkillers, so he should start coming to more often.”

Genji grimaces before remembering that his mask isn’t concealing his expressions now. Angela lifts her brows.

”I find it hard to believe you’re the same Genji who insisted that we bring him here,” she tells him, a gentle tease in her voice.

”Indeed,” Genji sighs, ”I should think twice before wishing for something, as it might come true.”

He glances towards Hanzo again, swallowing, but then shakes the feeling off his shoulders and looks at Angela instead. She answers his smile wearily and tilts her head as she watches him, waiting.

”Do you think he will survive if the two of us would go somewhere together for a while?” Genji asks her; ”The weather outside is beautiful, it’d be a shame to waste it.”

”Are you willing to risk it?” Angela chuckles.

Genji huffs.  
”I trust my brother to be like a cockroach,” he says dryly, ”but _I_ didn’t swear an oath to never kill a patient with neglect, which is why I’m asking you and not simply dragging you out to get the fresh air that you seem to  need more than anything.”

For a moment, Angela considers it. She looks back at the bed and lingers there silently, clearly wanting to leave but hesitant to take any risks. Then, finally, she pulls a sticky note in front of her, scribbles a message onto it, and sticks it on a bottle of water that she then delivers on the chair next to Hanzo’s bed. She returns, but not to leave with Genji; instead, she digs through her personal bag until she finds a book, which she then carries to that same chair and leaves there. Only after that she comes to Genji and nods at him.

”He’ll be fine, I’m sure,” she says in a rather desperate voice, ”but we can’t be gone for longer than a couple hours - which means I won’t be sleeping until I’ve changed the dressings and, Genji, this job is killing me.”

”Come,” Genji chuckles, pressing his hand over her shoulder and walking her out of the crew quarters, ”I’m sure we can figure something out while we walk.”

 

* * *

 

They head for their offices first. When there, however, Angela doesn’t stop by her own room. Instead, she brings them to Genji’s.

”You’ve worn your armour like it’s a part of you, which it is not, and that concerns me, Genji,” she tells him firmly and aims the best attempt at a sharp stare at him that she can muster with her puffy eyes, ”If you want me to get dressed and presentable, then I want you to do the same. Take off the armour. If we get in a fight, I’m sure you can punch the enemy without your sleeve guards.”

”Angela -”

”You came back here saying that you’ve accepted yourself,” she cuts him off, ”and yet you seem afraid to show any part of your body to us. I have a nasty feeling that you sleep in that thing, and it’s not good for you. You need to let your body breathe.”

”My body,” Genji growls, ”Is mostly made of material that neither breathes nor needs to do so. I like the way I look with my armour on.”

”Take off the armour suit and put on some clothes, Genji.”

They watch each other for a moment, both squinting challengingly. Then, when his eyes fall back down towards the coffee stain in Angela’s shirt, Genji gives in.

”Fine,” he sighs, facing her again, ”I will humour you.”

Smiling, Angela turns her back to him. She vanishes in her office and Genji slips inside his. Truthfully, it’s been a while since he's worn normal clothes. His cyborg body doesn’t feel pressure- or texture-related discomfort the way a human body would, and as such, he’s mostly given up on changing his attire. Before, when he was still a part of Overwatch, he used to take the armour off whenever his colleagues took off theirs, and they would all spend time together in everyday clothes while inbetween missions. There was a rhythm to life then, a rhythm for human beings that he later lost while living with the omnics. In that world, his armour was as good as his skin. He could bathe and sleep with it on, as it was made to fit directly onto his body, and the other machines didn’t waste time decorating their bodies or removing parts of themselves on the off-time either so why should he have done so, when he no longer needed to? They looked the same day in and day out, and eventually, so did Genji.

On his journeys, however, he did sometimes wear an attire - at times it was to cover his body and disappear into a crowd, and at others solely because Hanzo’s blade hadn't quite managed to separate him from his human vanity. He’s got all those clothes and some of his old ones in a suitcase on the office floor, padding his other belongings, and he kneels beside it now to pick one that would feel appropriate to wear for a walk. In the end, he chooses something that simply feels fitting for the occasion: a one-piece black suit with bright orange decorations, wide pantlegs and no sleeves, from his days in the Overwatch. They all had clothes made in that style and wore them occasionally for light training or over breaks. He hasn’t worn it since the day he first packed it, leaving Overwatch behind for what he thought was for the last time. Now, a small smile lingers on his lips as he starts undoing the armour that covers his form. He lets the plates slide off and places them carefully on his mattress to wait - this room doesn’t have the proper means to store them, but they’ll likely survive a day wrapped inside his blanket just the same. After all, so far, they’ve survived explosions, gunshots, knives and more; it’s unlikely that the empty office will figure out the means to destroy them while he’s gone.

Underneath, his body still consists of various metals and carbon fiber, and even without its plating, it still looks armoured: even this way, he could likely walk into a wall of guns and survive to tell the tale. Slowly, he reaches for his helm and undoes it from around his head. Now, he thinks with a small huff of amusement, a wall of guns would be more dangerous. His hands seem to shake a little as he lowers the helm on the bed and strokes his flattened hair until it sticks up again. He hasn’t been this naked in - years, it seems. His eyes first take a look at the arm he lost a while later than most of the other parts; it now consists of a metal frame filled up with artificial muscles and tendons, and ends in his hand that looks fitting for the rest, just like the other arm. More than that, it looks downright ugly still, but adding artificial skin to make his body look more appealing or _human_ was never a realistic option. That kind of luxury  is meant for civilians, and the priorities in building Genji’s new body had always rested in practicality, not in his aesthetic preferences. He runs his fingers over that arm and shudders; losing it had hurt him deeply, though not in the physical sense even though that alone had taken enough painkillers to get an elephant high, but rather, it had wrecked him psychologically. That arm had been the only remaining part of Genji that had been completely human, if the tubes that connected to it didn’t count, and the trouble with it had began almost immediately after he’d latched onto it as a sign that he was still a man despite his modifications. One day, unexpectedly, his body had simply decided that it no longer liked that arm, and that that particular arm just had to go if he wished to stay alive as the machine that he’d been made into. Angela had tried to save it, to stop his body from rejecting its own flesh, but ultimately, she could do nothing but remove it and fit him with a fourth man-made limb instead. The tissue around his collarbones had also suffered, but eventually, his body had stopped its attack on itself as unexpectedly as it had started it, and Genji had lived.

Now, if he’d had a mirror, the man that would have looked back at him would have mostly been something other than human. Even after the various tubes that served to keep his blood flowing had been redesigned and hidden under and inside the shell that protected everything squishy on his inside, he's still only vaguely man-shaped, and his head, scarred as it is, sticks out from the cyborg torso in a way that could have made someone question whether it had been added later in an attempt to humanize the robot it connected to. Very few outsiders seem to believe that Genji had been man first and machine later - surely, he doesn't resemble any omnic model that has ever been built, but he resembles a human being even less. It seems that for most, it's easier to accept that a man could build something like him than that a man could be turned into him.

Silently, Genji moves his hand down his side and rests it over the plated side of his hip. He looks down from the slight curve of his crafted belly to the smooth bump of his crotch, and an odd stinging pain forces its way to his chest. Quickly, he looks back up again and empties his mind as he’s been taught to do when the grief strikes, and starts pulling the one-piece over his form despite the way his heart’s pumping loudly and painfully against his reinforced ribcage.

Well, at least his heart is still human, he finds himself thinking while tucking his pantlegs into the shin guards that make his feet appear more like he’s only wearing a pair of boots.

Humanity hurts.

 

* * *

 

Angela emerges from her office in a short dress and a pair of thigh-high socks, but the most striking part about her appearance is that she no longer seems to lack any sleep. Genji raises a brow at her, but can’t help the smirk that despite the lingering pain in his chest pushes its way onto his lips. Angela does the same for him.

”Now that’s better,” she tells him, turning around and gesturing him to follow, ”You’ve finally rejoined the civilized society. And so have I.”

Genji catches up with her. He’s put back on his helmet, or at least the parts that cover his forehead and jaw, but he still feels naked - much more naked than when he wasn’t wearing any clothes, in fact.

”I will scare the tourists,” he says, trying to make a joke but only managing to sound insecure.

”But not me. To hell with the tourists, Genji. It’s a beautiful day.”

As they walk across the base towards the military tunnel leading out, Angela concentrates mostly on the communicator wrapped around her wrist.

”What are you doing?” Genji asks her as he enters the security code and lets the machine read his ID through his fingertip, his eyes on her the whole time.

”Making sure this thing will alert myself and Winston in case there’s an emergency reading in Hanzo’s vitals.”

”Give it a rest, Angela.”

”I’m giving it a rest when I’m sure your brother won’t die while I’m giving it a rest, Genji. Which brings me to...”

She finally lets her wrist down and enters the dimly lit, moist and cold cave with Genji by her side.

”How are you dealing with this?” she asks him.

”With Hanzo?”

She nods, and Genji thinks about it for a moment.

”I am... not entirely sure yet. I have so many conflicting feelings when I’m around him. At times, I want nothing better than to strangle him. But - most of the time, I just want to be his little brother again. I just want his acceptance. I don’t want him to look at me like I’m some kind of a monster, and I want him to stop talking about his dead brother and recognise me as I am. Angela, sometimes I hate myself for it; I perceive it as weakness, even though I realise that I’m being hard on myself.”

”He’s your older brother,” Angela says wearily, ”Of course you want his acceptance. But I’m not sure if that is good for you, Genji. I don’t think you should pursue it. Your value is not in Hanzo’s - anything, really; he lost his right to your brotherhood when he tried to murder you.”

”Maybe,” Genji replies slowly, ”Yet I am still his brother, and he is mine.”

They choose a long, spiralling stairway down, and walk it in silence for a while.

”What about you?” Genji asks then, ”How many times have you considered dumping a boiling hot mug of coffee in his face so far?”

”Twice,” Angela sighs, ”but only when I’m not there to do it. I dream about it, Genji, I do, but when he’s my patient, I don’t know what I feel.”

”You’re too good for us, Doctor Ziegler.”

”I’m no angel,” she tells him with a soft chuckle, ”but I do recognise pain where I see it.”

Genji nods. At the end of the stairway, another security door stops them from emerging on a sunlit beach. This time, Angela enters her code and gives her fingerprint - the door slides open, bathing them in light so bright that they both cover their eyes. Then, Angela tugs Genji by the hand into the open.

”You wanted to walk,” she reminds him, ”so walk.”

Her hand slips out of Genji’s, and in its wake, the man finds himself shivering. He tries not to mind it, but he knows people are staring as they enter the beach. And why wouldn’t they stare? Suddenly, Genji wishes he’d been wiser and picked clothes that covered up the majority of his body. The one-piece suit is airy and comfortable, and he likes the way it looks, but he doesn’t love the looks his mechanical arms get him, nor the way that people gape at his scarred, partially masked face and his patched throat.

”Ignore them, Genji,” Angela tells him, ”They’re curious, that’s all.”

”It’s funny, isn’t it? Ironic - that I’m a ninja by birth, and yet right now, the entire beach is watching my every move.”

”If you wanted to remain unseen, not one of them would spot you,” Angela huffs; she brings her hands in her hair and releases the tie that keeps her ponytail together, letting her hair fall down and over her shoulders.

”It seems like everyone is here. The entire city,” Genji says, but he’s not watching the beach, he’s looking at Angela and the curls in her hair where it used to be tied up.

”It’s rare to get a day like this in the winter.”

Genji nods.

They walk for around twenty minutes before leaving the crowd behind, talking about nothing in particular, but the chatter and the short silences that break it up make Genji feel nostalgic for the days when they used to do this more often inbetween their missions. Leaving was a relief; while in the Overwatch, he’d never accepted himself, and the pain that he’d felt while at odds with himself caused him immense stress and made him constantly miserable. However, to go chase inner peace, he’d had to leave all his friends behind, including Angela, whom he loved and respected equally the most. He’d never quite had a friend like her before. It really isn’t a surprise: not many friendships are forged under circumstances like theirs. Angela saved his life, but it was only afterwards that he’d truly come to know her, and through knowing her, the first parts of the puzzle that he’d needed to put together in order to learn to love himself again had been put into place. Of course, it wasn’t always straightforward - Genji remembers the resentment he held against her for what she’d done to his body, and sometimes, even for not just letting him die instead. And as the day before proved, that resentment isn’t completely gone yet; it has a tendency to surface under stress, when all the doubts and fears that he’ll always carry with him come to haunt him again. Still, it seems that Angela understands it, and although they’ve rarely talked about it, when he wants to take distance, she lets him do it.

”Angela,” Genji starts after one of their short silences as they begin to climb up a path back towards the mountain and the base, ”I have an offer for you that I believe might benefit us both.”

”Yes?”

”When we are back, I want you to rest. I will look after my brother while you sleep.”

”I don’t know, Genji.”

”I know how to change the dressings and how to get him in a wheelchair. He takes his pain medication orally, so the only thing I need to do is hand him the right pill. I can do this, Angela, and you need sleep.”

”What if the urge to strangle him becomes too overpowering?” Angela asks, though the corners of her mouth are fighting a grin.

”Then I promise I will walk outside and punch the wall,” Genji chuckles.

Angela thinks for a moment, then stops and looks at him seriously.  
”It’s not that I don’t think you can do it, Genji, not really. There’s nothing complicated about it, especially because you’ve been in his place and so truly do know what needs to be done. What I’m concerned about is leaving you there alone with him for six, seven hours.”

”If it makes you feel any better,” Genji tells her, ”My day plan involves some meditation and perhaps a quick nap, while his day plan revolves entirely around staying in bed and doing nothing. I grew up with him, and I’ve been confined in much smaller rooms with him for many hours - don’t ask, the answers might disturb you, but what I’m trying to tell you is that it won’t be anything I haven’t done before. I wanted him here, Angela. I need to face my fears one day.”

”When you insisted that we brought him here, I thought you just wanted to make sure that he lives,” Angela replies in a conflicted voice.

”I’ve met him before, Angela. This isn’t the first time our paths cross after what he did to me.”

This seems to come as a surprise to her.  
”When? How?”

”On the anniversary of my death,” Genji says, the corner of his mouth climbing up into a sad smirk, ”I followed him back to Hanamura, where he set up an altar to honour my memory. I had intended to merely observe, but I’ve never been very disciplined, and I ended up confronting him instead. After revealing myself to him I left, hoping that it would change something for him - or perhaps for myself. I wanted to open a door, Angela, that he could walk through should he choose to do so. And now he’s here. One way or the other, this is the end of the path I laid out for him. I must be there, because I promised so.”

”I had no idea,” Angela says, examining him.  
A breeze from the ocean catches in her hair, throwing it over her face; Genji finds himself reaching in to tuck it back behind her ear.

”I know you don’t agree,” he says, ”but there is a longing inside me that I cannot sate on my own. Whichever way it goes, Angela, I have to face him and find out the path set for us. And I cannot do that if I keep running away.”

”Being around him hurts you, Genji.”

”But it also makes me stronger.”

His answer doesn’t seem to fully satisfy Angela, but she ends up nodding regardless. They keep walking up the path until it takes them through another tunnel, then another, before they’re finally standing at the sealed door through which they first left.

”I will send you the data on his medication. You will find everything you need at my workspace, although it’s not very organized at the moment,” Angela says as the door opens for them, revealing the Watchpoint from behind it.

”I have time to look for what I need,” Genji assures her, ”Promise me that you will sleep at least a few hours.”

”I’ll try.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

With no drips in his arms anymore, it’s easier for Hanzo to sit up. He leans forwards, back aching, and tries to stretch but the pain in his ribs stops the movement short. A short, frustrated sigh leaves his lips as he straightens up again. His neck barely bends.

The room is empty, but sitting up seems to have been enough for the light sensors to come alive, and in a flicker, the space comes into view. There’s a bottle of water and a book beside his bed, but other than that, everything looks the same as before. For some time, Hanzo does nothing but stare at the chair, as if by looking at it intensely enough he could summon the objects upon it to his lap: the last thing he wants to do is move more, because every movement feels different from the way it used to be before, and dragging his stump legs over the bed makes him feel sick to his stomach. Finally, he gives in; there’s a note stuck to the bottle, and his curiosity gets the best of him. With some effort, he crawls closer to the chair and grabs the bottle, finding his arms much stronger than before. They no longer tremble under his weight, nor does his grip feel limp - it’s a good sign, for what it’s worth. At least, if he’ll ever get back out of here, he can still hold his damn bow.

_On break. Will be back soon._  
_I left you a book to read,  
_ _you should give it a try._

The signature is unreadable, but Hanzo doesn’t need it to know who left him the note. The book, which he picks up next, is a newer print - the smell of a new book is unmistakable - but made to appear as if it had been produced in the late 1800s with its faux-leather covers and the decorative golden title printed on the front. It’s a children’s book, he realises: _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_. He’s heard about it but never read it, not even as a boy, when he would have likely considered it too girly even if someone had suggested that he should. Now, he glances around in the room. There’s nothing else in there that he can reach, just this bottle of water and the book, and the lights will stay on for at least another thirty minutes before he needs to move again  to trigger the sensors. His options, it seems, are either to go back to drowning in self-pity or open this book and try to push back the inevitable; he chooses the latter, certain that he’ll have enough time later to indulge in the former regardless. Not wanting to rest any weight on his legs so as to hope and forget that they exist in the first place, he turns his torso sideways and places the book beside him on the bed. It kills his ribs, but after a while the pain settles, and he can finally read the first couple lines of a poem printed on the few first pages.

The language is... outdated. He keeps reading for a while before realising that nothing about what he just read has stuck in his brain, and he tries again, but while he recognises that the poem flows beautifully and even has a tangible feel to it, he simply can’t understand what it’s trying to convey.

He turns his eyes towards the room for a moment, rethinking the choice he’s made. The ache in his body is growing again, coming back to him in waves, and the silence around him feels like it’s turning thicker like a blanket about to smother him. In a flash, he becomes aware of his circumstances again, and a sense of panic floods into him despite his best efforts to tell himself that there’s nothing he can do about it anymore and therefore, there’s simply no point in _fearing_ what has already happened. His hand shaking, he runs it over the shape of his hip bone and over onto the side of his heavily bandaged thigh, but doesn’t dare to move further than that. He hasn’t even looked yet - somehow, he’s convinced himself that if he doesn’t see the damage done directly, if he just leaves the blanket on every time he could possibly catch a glimpse of his mutilated body, then perhaps it won’t be real after all. More often than not, he’s fallen asleep hoping to wake up sometime later still bleeding in the alley he either vaguely remembers or has simply made up in his mind, but this time, only beaten up, maybe stabbed, but with his legs still intact. Truly, he’d take anything over this; he’d take broken bones, he’d take a thousand scars, and he’d welcome death. Instead, every single time he wakes up again in the same exact situation. Helpless.

He swallows thickly, although there really isn’t anything left in his mouth. With great effort he turns his eyes back down towards the book and pulls his hand back from his body, resting it on the pages instead. He skips the poem, and to his great relief, the story itself makes more sense.

 


	5. Visiting hour

 

* * *

 

The door, invisible from Hanzo’s bed, hisses as it slides aside. It’s the first thing in a long time that pulls Hanzo’s attention away from the book, and he closes it quickly as if to pretend he was never reading it, reaching to leave it back on the chair from where he found it. He hears footsteps on the stairs, but when the man appears from behind the corner, at first, Hanzo thinks he’s fallen into a rabbit hole himself.

It’s Genji. Not the robot with the voice of his dead brother, but _Genji_ , or at least that’s what he thinks at first before realising that the arms that show from under his black and orange one-piece are an unnatural reddish-tinted grey and too ridged to be human, that his lower arms are nothing but hollow metal frames, and that his face under the metal guard is scarred near beyond recognition. It was the distance that masked these things at first, but once Hanzo has seen them, he can’t see his brother anymore, only the machine, and something in him that just barely came alive again withers away before he can grab a hold of it.

”Heya, brother,” Genji greets him, setting aside the book on the chair and sitting down in its place.

”You look... different,” Hanzo comments; he’s still looking at the exposed artificial muscle and framework that makes up the visible parts of Genji’s body.

”You mean I’m not naked today?”  
Despite the mask of cheerfulness in Genji’s voice, Hanzo recognises the uncertainty behind it. He lifts his gaze from his body and forces himself to look in his brother’s eyes instead.

Yes, he knows that look. The tightness of Genji’s mouth, still visible despite the scarring and the material that has partially replaced his lips and chin, and the deer-like appearance of his round eyes with their wide pupils - Hanzo’s seen it before.

”I didn’t know that you can change - the...”

”My body is a blank slate,” Genji tells him in a voice that Hanzo can’t read this time. It sounds almost as if he’s reading from a manual. ”It can be taken apart and built again to fit any purpose. This?”

He runs his metallic fingertips over the shape of his arm.

”This is what I look like under my shell.”

”Your whole body?”

”Most of it,” Genji says, a shadow crossing his eyes, ”My organs are protected with permanent plating, but my limbs can be replaced easily enough to not warrant the same treatment. The faux-muscle connects into my main frame, which holds everything in place.”

Hanzo lowers his gaze, then closes his eyes when the flood comes. It locks him up from the inside out, and he can’t stop it from happening; suddenly, he’s no longer in that room, but in Hanamura. He can feel the blood dripping down his arms, wetting his sleeves and his thighs, and he sees the gaping wounds in his brother’s body, but it’s not enough, he’s still breathing, he’s still letting out those godawful sounds - that gurgling - and he pushes the blade into him again, blinded, unsure what he’s cutting at, just trying to make it stop.

”Hanzo?”

”I didn’t - not your whole body,” Hanzo gasps, the entirety of his own shaking.

”No,” Genji tells him with a huff, ”No, not my whole body. But a good part of it, you did. You cut too many arteries, the rest kind of just - shut itself down. Angela still has nightmares about it, I bet, about trying to patch one part of my body while another just starts rotting off at the same time.”

”How can you speak of it like this?” Hanzo asks him, his eyes stinging strangely as he looks back up, all colour gone from his face, ”Like it’s nothing?”

”I have to live with it, Hanzo, every single day of my life. You think I would break down crying every time I look in the mirror, every time I wake up and see what I’ve become? No, I’ve come to terms with it. I’m whole now, in ways that I would have never been if all this hadn’t happened.”

There are too many words that Hanzo can’t speak, too many things he wants to cry out at the same time, and it feels like his jaw has suddenly become paralyzed. The breaths that come out through his nose sound like a wounded animal’s panicked breathing. His eyes drop back down towards the bed; there’s nothing, really, that he could say or do anymore - that he’d deserve to break this silence with.

To his relief, Genji eventually breaks it himself.

”How about you?” he asks, ”You feel like talking about it yet?”

Hanzo shakes his head.

”Have you at least seen them by now? What’s left down there?”

He shakes his head again, and Genji sighs.

”It’s been days, Hanzo. You need to deal with it eventually. Or are you hoping that if you never look at them before you get to step into your high-tech prostheses, you can just pretend you never lost your legs to begin with? Because let me tell you, out of experience, that’s not going to work out for you.”

Hanzo opens his mouth to ask how Genji did it - how he learned to live, or at least _decided_ that he would, after what happened, but he can’t. Instead, he feels a large shape inside his throat that doesn’t go down when he swallows, and he’s suddenly feeling dizzy again, dizzy enough to lie back down and close his eyes.

”Fine,” Genji sighs, ”Have it your way. Anyway, I told Angela to get some sleep, so I’ll be here instead, if you need something or, fuck, if you decide you want to talk one day. I know what you’re going through, but I can’t help you if you don’t let me try.”

He stands up from the chair - Hanzo can hear the creaking again, and then his soft steps as he moves away. There’s a sound of objects being moved around briefly before Genji comes back and pushes something in his palm. It’s a painkiller, but Hanzo’s not sure if he wants to take it. The touch of his brother’s metallic fingers lingers over his skin long after Genji’s already gone and settled in the chair set before the computer on Ziegler’s work desk, and its memory feels like a burn, a blister forming onto Hanzo’s palm. A small gasp leaves his lips and he opens his eyes to another wave of pain; the pill that he’s holding in his hand would come to a need, but he deserves the pain, so he puts it aside instead, hoping that sleep will take the worst edge off the ache.

Some time later, perhaps hours, he wakes up again to an all-consuming pain in his limbs and chest. Genji’s still there, as he promised: he’s seated in the chair reading _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ , and it looks like he’s already almost through the book. As if sensing that he’s being watched, the cyborg raises his eyes and meets Hanzo’s. He puts the book down and moves forwards, his face leaning to his knuckles.

”Good timing,” he says, ”I was just about to wake you up.”

He offers his palm towards Hanzo, with the painkiller that he dismissed earlier upon it.

”You didn’t take your medicine.”

”I don’t want it,” Hanzo tells him, although the pain that woke him up is nearly unbearable now.

”And I don’t want Angela to tell me off. I promised her I can do this, and at this rate, you’ll make me look bad. Come on, Hanzo. Not taking the pill doesn’t make you look tough, it makes you look stupid.”

Hanzo grunts. It doesn’t particularly matter to him what he looks like - all he cares about is that as long as he’s in pain, the guilt that otherwise looms over his every thought and action has less hold over him. But at the same time, he’s never been more aware of his amputated limbs. The points where his legs now end pulse with pain that seems to originate inside his bones and reflect from there into every part of his being, and he can picture in his mind where the sutures close up the skin over the stumps based on the map his brain’s drawing of the sources of his pain. He shudders, then pulls himself up on the bed despite the fact that it hurts like hell, and takes the pill from Genji. He swallows it dry and looks away while waiting for it to work - it doesn’t take long before the first effects start numbing the edge of his agony.

”Good. Now, I should help you change the bandages. Do you know how to?” Genji asks him.

”No. I have not - I try not to...”

”Think about it?”

Hanzo nods.

”Well, Angela won’t be doing it for you forever, you know.”

A distinctive blush rises over Hanzo’s cheeks; he’s not sure what’s worse, the reminder of his own helplessness or the shame he associates with another person touching his body in this condition. He looks back at Genji and wishes he could disappear, and Genji watches him in turn with an unreadable expression before finally standing up, sighing, and settling on the bed instead. He reaches into a box he’s brought underneath the chair and picks out fresh, wide bandages from inside.

”This time, I want you to look,” he says matter-of-factly, ”I want you to learn how to do this on your own.”

There’s a moment during which Hanzo feels like he’s frozen in place again. He can’t move, he can’t speak, and he can’t do anything to stop Genji from pulling the blanket off his lap. Instinctively, he closes his eyes and turns his head away, but almost immediately, he feels the touch of metal against his jaw and has to turn back. His heart races when he forces his eyes open, but he still doesn’t look at his legs, he looks at Genji, his breathing barely functioning as he pleads voicelessly for him to show him any other way out of the situation.

”This is your body, Hanzo,” Genji reminds him, ”You can’t run from it.”

”How do I do this? How - how did you... do it?”

A hint of a smile seems to cross Genji’s features, but it passes so quickly that Hanzo can’t tell for sure if he really saw it.

”Kicking and screaming,” the younger brother says quietly, ”I had no other choice. I’d made a promise, see - to accept this body in order to serve with it. And I couldn’t serve if I couldn’t get up and face what I had become.”

”How did it not kill you?”

”Do you think my condition is worse than death, brother?” Genji asks him, eyes dark as he examines Hanzo.

Stunned, Hanzo looks at him for a moment, unable to speak. Then, he can’t hold back anymore.

”Yes,” he breathes out, ”I can’t think of anything worse.”

Genji tilts his head. He looks... curious, almost.

”I can think of many worse things than being a cyborg,” he says then, ”I love living, Hanzo. Perhaps it wasn’t always that way, but I have learned to appreciate what I have now rather than cling to my grief or the things I once had but lost, or even the things that I wanted but could never have because of what happened to me. What scares you so much about it, brother? Are you afraid because you don’t think I’m a man anymore, or because, perhaps, you blame yourself for stripping me of my humanity, my future?”

As he speaks, he strips the hem of the blanket from over Hanzo's body. Feeling like a cornered beast, Hanzo retreats back against the wall and closes his eyes again, trying to stop the ringing in his ears.

”I had... no idea... what would become of you,” he says, his voice barely audible.

”I thought I was going to die,” Genji replies calmly, ”I remember it, the fear, the thought that I would die there alone after you’d already gone. How I barely held onto life - I think it was because I was too scared to die that I survived in the first place. I remember the blood in my throat and my mouth and how I was sure I’d drown in it, and I wanted to cry but I couldn’t do even that, and my limbs wouldn’t move and I was cold and I felt death so close, Hanzo, that I know exactly what it feels like to die. And I didn’t want it. That’s why I said yes when I was offered a second chance, no questions asked and no matter the consequences. There have been moments when I’ve regretted that decision, but if I could go back to that moment, I would do the same in a heartbeat. There is nothing worse than death, because death is the loss of everything, not just a body or some opportunities but every chance that you might have had to feel happy again, to feel loved again, to dream and yes, even feel pain and sadness again. My new life is not perfect but it is a blessing, and yours isn’t over yet, either.”

Hanzo can feel Genji’s hand over his, and the way he picks it up and holds it, reaching down with it until he presses it against Hanzo’s leg, leaving it there.

”You can start undoing the bandage here. You can do it with your eyes closed if it makes it easier, just like I had to undo the ropes you tied me up with when I was eight years old and trusted you when you said it was for training.”

”It _was_ for training.”

”You left me alone in a pitch black shed and locked the door behind you, you asshole.”

A choked laughter escapes Hanzo. His fingertips trace out the clip holding the bandages together and he undoes it, releasing the end.

”But you made it out, didn’t you?” he breathes out, trying not to think of what he’s doing as he starts pulling off the bandage from around his leg.  
Carefully, he opens his eyes on level with Genji’s face, afraid to look down but curious to see Genji speak of their childhood.

”I did make it out of the ropes, yeah,” Genji huffs, ”But Dad had to let me out of the shed.”

”Did you know that he put me in my room for that and refused to let me down even to eat for the rest of the day?” Hanzo asks, barely noticing that he’s smiling.

”I didn’t know that, no,” Genji says, peering at him with a surprised expression, ”Ah, revenge; it feels good even twenty years after.”

”I had to piss in a bottle.”

”And I feel absolutely no empathy towards your eleven-years-old self, Hanzo, because you were the devil.”

”I always had good reasons,” Hanzo says, but while he’s sure of it, he can’t recall a single one.

Genji raises a brow at him.  
”Really?”

”I... remember it that way.”

The younger man scoffs, tugging at the end of a bandage over Hanzo’s other leg.

”You always had _reasons_ ,” Genji admits, ”but how good they were, that I wouldn’t be so sure of.”

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

  

They keep pulling off layers of bandages even after the conversation dies, but Hanzo can barely believe that they had it in the first place. For a moment, he could really feel like he was talking to Genji again - the Genji that he knew. Connecting the snot-nosed boy to this cyborg sitting cross-legged next to him on the bed seems odd, but perhaps it is doable. When Genji doesn’t lift his gaze to meet Hanzo’s, Hanzo can watch him without feeling self-conscious about doing so. Somehow, being in his presence... it easens up the darkness that has made home within him. It drives away the pain that’s been stuck to him like his own shadow for well over a decade, and although he can’t quite accept this Genji as the brother he lost, he can see parts of that brother in him nonetheless. Suddenly, he wonders how he himself appears to Genji. Weak, he thinks - unable to even face his own condition, much less the crimes he’s committed. The last time they met, Genji defeated him in combat so easily that Hanzo doubts the training he’s had since would be enough to make a difference now if he had to duel the other man again. Is it because of his body, the technology keeping him alive, or just because he’s better? Even if it was because of his body, Hanzo should have still been able to take him on; physical advantage alone doesn’t dictate the winner in a fight, it’s the training and skill that truly matter in the end.

”You’ve become... stronger,” he says, and as he looks down, unthinking, he sees his legs for the first time.

The bandages are partially undone, revealing the pale skin of his remaining limb from underneath. A neat row of stitches keeps him together, the end of what used to be his leg now a smooth, round curve just underneath the bump of his knee. The healthy thigh disappears under layers of bandages and the fabric of his underwear. On the other side, Genji’s gotten a little bit further - there’s a large bruise on his thigh there, and the drains still poke out from underneath his skin, the tubes running down and off the bed.

”And you finally looked,” Genji replies, a small smirk on his lips, ”Well, it’s not as bad as you thought, is it?”

Hanzo swallows. He lets go of the bandage he’s holding, letting it fall onto the bed beside him, and he touches the skin a few centimetres above the stitches. It doesn’t feel very different to before.

”Is there... enough of me, for the prostheses?”

”Sure. Angela’s done a good job. I saw you when you got here, I wasn’t sure how much you’d be left with, but there’s plenty. But do elaborate - how have I gotten stronger? I’m still a sucker for compliments, especially from my big brother who, let me think, has never said anything nice about me before.”

Hanzo’s thankful for the distraction. He lifts his gaze up and squints at Genji.

”I mean our fight. You beat me.”

”I had the advantage. You didn’t know who I was or what I was capable of. You wouldn’t have sent the dragons at me if you’d known it was me, and that was how I beat you.”

”No,” Hanzo admits, ”But I should have recognised you.”

”Did you?”

”I... thought I did,” he says, ”but I couldn’t believe it. Your movements, the way you evaded my arrows, the way you seemed to be playing with me - I knew it was you, but I thought you were dead, and I thought I had finally gone mad.”

He hesitates for a moment before continuing.

”After you were gone, I questioned whether it had all been a vivid dream. I went back to my apartment and left Japan again that same night. I couldn’t - I had to get away from your ghost.”

”It felt good to see you, brother,” Genji says, sounding careful, ”It had been years, not knowing how you were. Not knowing, at times, if you were even alive anymore. I didn’t know what had become of you, but once I learned about your ritual, I knew I had to see it with my own eyes. I wanted to attend my funeral.”

The last sentence comes in a lighthearted tone, but Hanzo can’t find it in him to smile.

”How much...” he starts, then chokes up and has to start over again, ”How much do you hate me?”

Genji’s about to answer, when suddenly, the lights turn red.

 _Intruders detected,_ a voice echoes through the room.

 

* * *

 

Genji’s up before he realises it. He stands between the bed and the doorway, his armourless body tingling with anticipation and adrenaline. Someone’s coming. For their sake, he hopes it’s Angela, running down to get him, but - it’s not.

He barely recognises Amélie. Her shape is... different. Her colour is different, too; a pale, bruise-like blue, as if she’d drowned under ice.

Behind him, Hanzo has perked up as well, but he has no weapon, nothing to defend himself with. The Storm Bow - it’s inside the locker beside Widowmaker, unreachable now, even if Genji managed to find the key from Angela’s desk. Not that she would have left it there.

”Oh,” Widowmaker says in a voice of cold, pretentious surprise, ”I thought he would be accompanied by a medic, not a cyborg. This should be more... interesting.”

She lifts her weapon and takes aim. Without having to think about it, Genji produces three shurikens from his channeled arm and takes the shot; they hit the incoming bullet on the way and reflect it to the ceiling. Chest heaving, he watches Widowmaker lower her weapon again, look at it and then at him with raised brows; she chuckles.

”Want to bet on that aim again, Sparrow?”

Genji doesn’t know how she knows about his nickname, but hearing it makes his blood boil.

”Why are you here?” he asks her, trying to buy time.  
He can’t fight her with a limited number of shurikens alone. There’s no way.

”To finish a job,” Widowmaker tells him, ”If you’d only left him alone and not made this into a big, ugly mess... he could have lived.”

 _Intruders detected in the dormitories,_ the voice echoes again in the room, and Widowmaker casts a bored-looking glance towards the ceiling as it fades.

”I am a bit pressed for time,” she says in a lazy voice, ”Could you step aside so I can shoot your brother now or will I really have to go through you first? I’m not much for bird-hunting.”

”Try me,” Genji growls at her, another set of shurikens pushing up and between his knuckles.

She does try him. This time, he charges forwards, directly into the bullet, and takes it in his shoulder. Powered by the strength built into his body, however, he keeps moving quickly towards her despite the impact, and with a big crash, he lands into her, wishing he had at least a tanto knife to finish her with, but he’s got nothing but his fist still clutching the shurikens between his fingers. The pain in his shoulder is blinding - the bullet tore through the artificial muscle and into his flesh, he can feel blood pouring between his parts, but if he lets her go, she’ll just get back up and shoot again. This time, Genji’s not sure if he’s got anything to deflect it with.

 _Come on,_ he thinks as he presses his lower arm into Widowmaker’s throat, trying not to think of her as Amélie even though her face is the same, _Anyone. Any time now._

She grasps her weapon - he doesn’t have enough hands to keep her from doing it. The sound of rapid-fire gunshots rings in his ears and causes an enormous amount of pain, which makes his arm lift from her throat. When he realises it, he slashes at her with his shurikens, hoping to at least slow her down, but no more than a drop of blood gathers at the edges of the open wounds. Stunned, he gets thrown aside, and soon enough Widowmaker has her heel over his chest and her weapon aimed at his head.

”I really do hate interruptions,” she mutters, but at that moment, something hits her square in the side of her face; she spins around, letting Genji slip away, and takes aim at Hanzo instead.

Between rolling over on the floor and tackling Widowmaker to throw off her aim, Genji catches a glimpse of his brother, who, for whichever reason, appears rather satisfied with himself. While wrestling for control over the assassin's weapon, Genji notices that on the floor beside them sits _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ , flat open and a little worse for the wear.

They seem to be going at it forever: at one point, Genji manages to get a firm grip of the rifle, but immediately as he starts wrenching it away from Widowmaker’s grip, she changes her tactic and shoves it directly into his face instead, and he can hear his nose cracking when the heavy gun connects with it. Dizzy, he’s uncertain what direction the gunfire comes from, and all he can do is crouch down and hope it doesn’t connect with him as blood gushes over his mouth.

”Am I late?” a very familiar voice asks, breathless but excited, as a small hand appears in his view and offers to pull him up.

Genji grabs it and stands up to face Lena - Tracer - who seems a little sweaty and pale, but nonetheless ready for action.

”Not one moment,” Genji tells her; they both look towards the direction that the enemy fled, and as Lena's eyes meet Hanzo’s, the archer nods his head towards the stairway in a defeated manner.

”Who’s that?”

”Talk later,” Genji grunts.

He’s missed running with Tracer.

 

* * *

 

”Are there more of them?” Angela asks sharply, leaning over the computer.  
She’s only wearing a single sock - the other one got caught in an uneven nail on the way in, and she left it there in her hurry.

”Where did she go?”

Winston squints at the cameras. They can both see Genji now, but there’s someone with him.

”Lena,” Winston mumbles, ”Is that Lena?”

Angela isn’t sure, not before the shape blinks out of view and appears a good distance away. Genji sprints after it, and she’s almost certain she can see them high-five.

”It’s Lena,” she confirms in a surprised voice, ”Wherever she came from, she’s not a moment too early.”

Winston nods. He hesitates a second before changing the camera.  
”Well, the dormitory is on lockdown. The only way you can open the doors now is through this computer, and only with my voice.”

Athena, the operating system, promptly confirms his words.

”Athena,” Winston tells it, ”Establish direct communications with Genji.”

”Communications link established.”

”Genji? Do you hear us?” Winston asks, speaking closer to the receptors built into the screen.

”Copy,” Genji’s voice rattles through a still-downloading link, ”Can you see her in the cameras?”

”Not yet,” Winston tells him, ”but we’ve locked down the crew quarters, so she can’t return there. It’s likely she’ll attempt escape rather than try to fight a lost battle. We must find her before she can do that.”

”Genji, are you hurt?” Angela asks, pushing beside Winston.

”Ah,” Genji says: they can see him take the long route around an obstacle he would have normally climbed, ”It’s just a flesh wound, Angela, I’ll live.”

”Are you bleeding?”

”Worry about me later,” Genji replies, ”Find Amélie.”

Lena’s voice calls from nearby Genji, but the words are too muffled to make sense of. They climb up on a container together, but stop there; it seems that they don’t know any better where to look next than the team scanning the screens. Then, Angela spots something on that same camera.

”Genji, down!” she shouts.

Genji falls, trained to respond without delay, and beside him, Lena collapses too. Immediately at that moment, a loud gunshot carries not only through their communications link, but through the walls of the bunker-like base itself all the way to them.

”This’ll be all over the news tomorrow...” Winston mutters as they watch Lena blink after Widowmaker on their screen, disappearing from view for a brief moment before appearing on the next one.

Genji follows her: he lands gracefully onto the ground about ten metres below and then sprints off, following the walkways from underneath as Lena pursues the assassin from the above.

Widowmaker’s grapple hook takes her up and onto the space shuttle stored in the hall above the dormitories. From there, she turns in a graceful pirouette, aims in flight, and shoots. Angela lets out a sharp gasp when Lena falls: for one horrifying moment, nothing seems to move - nothing but Widowmaker, who disappears behind the shuttle and out the door towards the launch station. Then, no more than two seconds after the shot, Lena pulls herself back up. She seems to shout something at Genji before disappearing through the doorway beside her, and Genji, picking up his pace, jumps up onto a pile of containers and from there onto the walkway over which the enemy disappeared seconds before.

Below, Lena’s rushing to catch up, but Angela feels in her gut that it might just be too late now.

 


	6. The council gathers

* * *

 

”Lena,” Winston lets out and in a blink of an eye, he’s got her in his big embrace.

It’s dawn. Genji sits on a stone, back against the building’s wall, and pants. Losing blood has made him weak, and he’s grateful at the sight of Angela walking with swift steps towards him. She kneels beside him and takes a careful hold of his shoulder, examining the bloody wound.

”It’s gone through one of the lesser artificial veins,” she tells him, ”that’s why you’re bleeding so much. I have to get you patched up before you end up joining your brother in mandatory bed rest.”

”Aw, Angela.”  
Genji holds onto her as she pulls him up.  
”I’m fine.”

She takes a long look at his blood-stained face and squints.  
”You were shot, Genji,” she says shortly, then turns to wave at Winston and Lena; ”Put coffee dripping, I’ll be down with you in a moment. I have to take a look at Genji first.”

They walk towards the dormitory, Genji leaning a little onto Angela’s shoulder; his brain feels foggy and his body difficult to control. When they stop before the door, however, Angela’s security code bounces back.

 _Unauthorized access,_ the screen states, blinking red.

”I guess you’ve been fired,” Genji huffs before touching the side of his helmet - the touch sensor opens up the communications panel. ”Winston. Winston?”

No response. Angela sighs.  
”He turned on lockdown.”

”He did, didn’t he. Winston!”

”They’ll be inside in a minute,” Angela says in a defeated voice.  
She lowers Genji onto the floor and kneels beside him, taking another look at the gunshot wound in the light shining above the door.

”How’s it look, Doc?”

”Extracting the bullet shouldn’t be an issue. I can see it from here, it’s stuck in your frame and partially blocking the bloodflow from the vein’s other half. That’s good. If we get lucky, we might even get some information from the bullet.”

Genji nods. He sniffs, congealed blood blocking his nostrils. Reminded by the sound, Angela lifts her hand and touches the side of his face: she presses her fingers gently around the bones there, making sure everything’s intact.

”It’s not broken,” she tells him then, wiping her fingers to her light grey pyjama pants, ”You got lucky with that hit. It looked really bad from the cameras.”

”Did you see that book hit her?” Genji asks, grinning.

Angela suppresses a laugh and nods.  
”I didn’t mean to _arm_ Hanzo when I left that thing to him, but I suppose in crisis anything goes.”

”He saved my life,” Genji points out, his voice more serious now.

”And you saved his. You took a bullet for him. Remember what I said about worrying this might go badly for you in the end?”

It gets a short laugh out of Genji, but he shakes his head.

”I don’t know what to make of it,” he confesses then, ”I didn’t have the time to process it when it happened, but I didn’t expect...”

His earpiece rattles, and then Winston’s voice speaks.  
”Sorry, sorry, I see you stuck outside the dormitory, I’m cancelling the lockdown right now. Athena? Athena, pull the lockdown.”

The machine above them beeps in a broken voice. Angela stands up and runs her code into it again, and this time, the door slides open. Once again, Angela helps Genji back on his feet, and together they make their way downstairs.

The lights are on, and there’s blood and cartridges and a few of Genji’s shurikens littering the floor by the doorway and the lockers on top of the second stairway. Genji’s first instinct is to look for Hanzo, who sits on his bed with his hands crossed on his lap, watching them approach with the expression of a man who’s been locked down alone for an entire night knowing that a gunfight is taking place around him.

”Did she escape?” he asks them in English, skipping the greeting.

Angela brings Genji to a bed opposite from Hanzo’s and sits him down. Genji hisses when she moves his shoulder to shine the light towards it, but she doesn’t bother apologizing before turning away to go looking for her equipment. Meanwhile, Genji turns back to Hanzo, whose eyes are locked onto him, switching between the hole in his shoulder, his bloody face and his eyes. Self-consciously, Genji wipes some dry blood off his face as gently as he can so as to not push his sore nose.

”She’s gone,” he tells him in a bitter voice, ”We saw her jump off a cliff and swing around it, but there was no way I could have climbed after her with my arm like this.”

Hanzo curses. Then, his expression turns for a frown.  
”How bad is it?” he asks, his eyes briefly skimming the gunshot wound.

”Not bad. I’ve had worse,” Genji says with a playful glimmer in his eyes.  
When Hanzo realises what he means, it seems to render him speechless: he swallows and turns away in an awkward manner, clears his throat and then refuses to look at his brother again.

Saving them from the silence that follows, Angela sits down beside Genji with an expanded first-aid kit - Genji’s seen her with it before many times, and knows to expect pain.

”Deep breath now,” Angela tells him.

He closes his eyes and keeps them that way until the bullet is out of his body. Next, a clean cloth presses against his wound to catch the first trickle of blood following the removal of the blockage, but Angela doesn’t keep it there for long - she can’t stop the artificial vein from bleeding by applying pressure. Once more she yanks his shoulder into better light, but with the bullet gone and a touch of some externally applied medicine, it doesn’t hurt as bad. For a while, she works with a strange combination of stitches, two different kinds of medical glue and an array of tools one would more likely find useful at repairing a broken tablet than at treating a gunshot wound, but once she’s done, the blood has stopped pouring out and the artificial muscle that the bullet cut through looks almost as good as new.

The pain isn’t quite gone, however.

”Thanks, Angela,” Genji says, his voice rather quiet and soft with a distinctive tone of respect in it.

”Just - next time, catch a bullet with something other than your body,” Angela sighs at him, cleaning up her blood-stained tools with alcohol and sterile wipes.

”I promise.”

Angela nods. She closes her first-aid kit and stands up with it, bringing it with her to the table. There, she stops: for a moment, she sways a little from side to side, staring off into the distance with her back turned towards the brothers. Then, decisively, she returns to Genji and plants a key in his palm.

”This should be your choice,” she tells him, closing his fist around the key.

Genji glances at the locker and then at her, and she nods. He nods, too.

”Could you do me a favour?” he asks then, pushing the key between the sheets of the bed he’s sitting on.

”Of course.”

”Go have breakfast with the others. I’ll join you soon.”

From the corner of his eyes, Genji sees Hanzo turning slightly towards him in response to his words, questioning. He doesn’t lift his eyes from Angela, however; he does his best to tell her without words that he just needs a moment alone with his brother after everything that happened. Finally, Angela nods.

”I’ll make sure there’s hot water for your tea when you come,” she promises.  
Genji doesn’t miss the suspicious look she gives Hanzo, but he notices that she, too, seems less convinced now. After she’s gone and the door has closed behind her, his eyes meet Hanzo’s again.

”You saved my life,” he says, surprised to hear his voice crack.

”And you saved mine,” Hanzo reminds him, ”Was it worth it?”

Genji finds himself smiling.  
”I’d do it again.”  
His hand slips back under the sheets, and with the key in his hand, he crosses the room. He still feels rather weak and the nerve connections all over his arm ache like hell, as if he could otherwise forget that he’s been shot, but he ignores it to his best ability as he turns the key and opens the locker.

He’s never touched Hanzo’s bow before. It’s lighter than he thought, and much taller than he had estimated. Beside it rests the quiver, with all its arrows still intact; there are three different kinds, two of them equally deadly and the third one blunt at the end but more than capable at revealing hidden enemies. He hangs the bow around his good shoulder and picks up the quiver, then kicks the locker closed with his foot. Turning around, he examines Hanzo’s reaction - there’s surprise on his features, and hesitation.

”Do you think it suits me, brother?” Genji asks teasingly.

”You are holding it wrong,” Hanzo tells him, ”You always did that.”

”Ah, it’s not going to break.”

”No, but it looks ridiculous.”

Genji rolls his eyes. He drops the quiver on the table and readjusts the bow until it’s in the proper position over his back.

”Satisfied?” he asks, and his heart skips a beat when his brother smiles and nods.

”Better,” Hanzo agrees.

Genji feels it out for a moment, the weight and balance of the weapon over his body feeling at once unfamiliar and oddly comforting. Then, chuckling, he pulls it off, catches the quiver under his arm, and brings them both to Hanzo’s bed. He lays them down over the man’s lap and sits at the foot of his bed, smiling.

”I never liked archery,” he says.

”Neither did I,” Hanzo huffs, his fingertips running over the weapon before he lands his palm on the grip, "but some things change."

His hand seems to fit it perfectly.

”You were good with a sword. Better than I was. Why did you change to a bow?” Genji asks him curiously.

He sees Hanzo hesitate again. The older brother retreats his hand from the weapon and adjusts the quiver against his leg instead, seemingly moving things around solely to do something with his hands: Genji knows how he feels, knows the restlessness that he tries to hide.

”After what I did to you with my blade, I could no longer touch one,” Hanzo says then, slowly, as if reconsidering the confession with every word.

Genji lifts his head. A quiet ”ahh” escapes him, but Hanzo neither hears nor sees it.

”You do have a sharp eye,” Genji says, feeling it’s better to drop the subject: he’s too tired to go over it again. ”That book hit right where it hurt.”

A soft chuckle leaves Hanzo, and he glances at Genji quickly before gripping his bow again.

”Thank you for giving it back to me.”

”Next time we get unwanted guests, I’d like to have some back-up.”

”Are we expecting a next time?”

”God, I hope not,” Genji sighs - he slides off the bed and stretches his neck, ”but if there is one, it won’t be today. Now, I have to get some breakfast. Angela will bring yours when she returns, I’m sure.”

For a while, he stands there, looking at the scene: something’s missing.

”What did you do with the bandages?” he asks then, giving Hanzo a curious look.

Hanzo pushes his bow down from his lap and tugs up the side of his shirt, showing a belt of bandages around his waist.

”I may be stubborn, but I am not numb or blind, nor am I stupid,” he says, ”It took me some time, but I’ve bandaged wounds before. I think I did just fine.”

Genji smiles again. He nods as Hanzo lets his shirt fall back in place.  
”I’ll see you after I’ve had some sleep.”

”And I will be here,” Hanzo replies with a crooked smirk.

 

* * *

 

Genji’s eyes take a moment to adjust to the light outside. He feels chilly, but attributes it more to the bloodloss than the weather. It’s another sunny day, but because of the night’s excitement, he thinks he’ll be spending most of it sleeping. But first - he’s got something he has to do before he can join the others for breakfast.

The corridor leading up to the offices is empty, but Genji spots a new suitcase he hasn’t seen there before leaning against one of the office doors. It has the Union Jack printed all over it, and plenty of stickers from all over the world showcasing the places it’s travelled. Lena’s, of course; it looks like she’s come to stay. She’s made the room next to Genji’s her own, the last one on this corridor. Should someone else still come and join them, they’d likely have to start making use of the dormitory-turned-into-a-hospital; really, it’s Hanzo who shouldn’t be there, but most of the medical bay had been emptied along with the majority of other facilities in the Watchpoint a long time ago so they’d had to make do with what they’d got.

Genji tries to imagine McCree trying to settle in the crew quarters with Hanzo, and a suffocated chuckle escapes him as he kneels down beside his table. He grabs a small waterproof pouch to carry everything: like many others of his belongings, it still bears the Overwatch logo on it. These pouches had been a part of their basic equipment to protect a small amount of necessities from the weather in all conditions, but mostly, they were used to carry a bunch of snacks around on the days they had off for sightseeing and relaxing. Now, Genji drops inside his green tea, a pen and a folder; the folder sticks up through the top of the pouch, but it doesn’t matter much. Before leaving again, he searches through his small pharmacy and picks out a fast-acting painkiller for his shoulder - the numbing agents that Angela applied into the wound to make the treatment more bearable for him aren’t really doing much to battle the pain anymore.

Then, he resurfaces into the sunlight. On the way to the bridge beside the launch pad, the sounds of the ocean and gulls screaming follow him everywhere. The sun peeks from past the mountain, its rays heating up Genji’s black hair and every black part of his one-piece suit, and he welcomes that sensation against the cold that lingers inside. Underneath the walkway, he realises he can’t climb onto it like he’d do on any other day. It feels funny to take the stairs - he’s so used to making his way around obstacles the easy way, up and over them, instead of having to walk around them. Maybe he would have taken the long way before his body was reconstructed, but now? His muscles don’t feel the burn of exercise, nor do they grow tired of it, so the thought of choosing the more convenient path mostly doesn’t even enter his mind unless he’s walking with someone else.

Up on the bridge, he can feel the wind coming. It catches in his hair and tries to sway him off balance, but he doesn’t mind it as he sits down, cross-legged, on his usual spot. He unpacks his pouch, taking out the pen and the folder and leaving the green tea inside for the time being. From inside the folder he picks up a couple pages of letter paper, then sets them on top of the folder to write.  
  


_Master,_ he begins writing, _I’m back at Gibraltar. Funny how sometimes in life things come a full circle, isn’t it?_

_I can’t tell you why I’m here. Too risky; we've already had one incident so far. But you probably know already. What you don’t know is that this is about more than just returning to a place that once offered me purpose. You see, I have come to face the next big challenge on my path. You once told me that the soul can only grow through strife, and I can say with full confidence that I have a wonderful tendency to surround myself with it. Whether this offers me plenty of opportunities to grow, or simply showcases how stupid I am, I don’t quite know. You would probably tell me it’s not a question of choosing one - that I am indeed facing a cornucopia of opportunity, but most of it has come to me due to my own stupidity._

_What you also told me, more than once, is that I have_ _to face my past if I wanted to truly move from it, or if I wanted to accept it and through it, accept what I am. I’m not sure whether I’m interpreting your advice a little too literally, but I have brought my past here. He’s injured and needs help, but he could have gotten that help in any one of the world’s modern hospitals. Instead, I insisted that he was treated here, so that I could make peace with him._

_Is that selfish? I want to think that I am also looking after what’s best for him, but I know that my intentions aren’t untainted by my own desires and pursuits, and I wonder if I’m forcing fate. His path is not for me to choose, but he is my brother, so am I not to at least try to guide him when he’s lost?_

_And this isn’t the worst part yet, Zenyatta. The worst part is that I think I still love him. No, I can hear you shaking your head (and yes, when you shake your head, it makes a sound, I’ve told you this before) and you’re saying, ”Genji, of course you still love him.” But I mean that in the most painful sense of the word - I love him, not as a concept or a part of my past, but as my brother, my flesh and blood, and I’m starved for his approval despite our long talks of how his rejection cannot define me. All I want is for him to look at me and feel pride in what I am and, perhaps most painfully, in what I’ve become. It seems impossible to remember that my difference is my gift and my blessing when all I can see is the pain looking at me causes him. Why should I care, I’ve asked myself, if he hurts himself with the consequences of his own actions? But I do care, and I hate being a consequence of somebody else’s actions. With him, it seems, I can never just be myself and accept that. I will always compare myself to what could have been, and I am unable to let go of what we should have been together._

_You’re growing tired of me already, me and my insistence in taking all these steps back. Or perhaps you’re looking at this letter and smiling in your soul, thinking that all these steps are necessary for me to grow and move on. But perhaps what confuses and pains me the most is that sometimes, we seem to almost get along with each other. There are moments that I genuinely feel as if... we still have a common path to share in this life. I don’t know what to think of it, of this potential; I’m afraid to dream of it, but what if I could still one day have a brother? Someone who shares my past and my blood, something that I can never have with anybody else?_

_My friend, I have too many thoughts to fit this strange organ of mine, encapsuled inside once-fractured bone and metal casing. I hope your path is clearer than my own today._

_\- Sparrow._  
  


Genji seals the letter inside an envelope and holds it in his hands for a moment, letting his energy flow into it in the hopes that his mentor can more clearly sense him through his words. Then he slips it inside the folder, packs his things up again, and lets his body slide off the walkway. Landing requires nothing from his shoulder, and his feet meet the ground with a quiet thud, dust pooling around the impact point even as he straightens up and turns to head for the conference room.

Someone will have to buy groceries today - they can’t all survive on peanut butter alone, and with the official shipments of necessities all but cut off, they have to leave the base every now and then to restock. He can go with the others and see his letter delivered.

 

* * *

 

Despite the night’s attack and the pain in Genji’s shoulder, the breakfast is the best they’ve had in a long time. It takes a while to catch up between all of them now that Lena’s there to ask all the right questions, and even sleep deprived, the others find it easy to laugh with her. She teases Winston about his fourth peanut butter sandwich, takes her time complimenting Angela on the work she did on Genji’s injury, and tells Genji that once he’s feeling better, she wants to pick up training with him again.

”Maybe you can show me some of your cool ninja moves?” she asks, leaning back in her chair and biting a large chomp off her sandwich.

But once the food is eaten and all they’re left with is an assortment of steaming mugs on the table, Winston leans forwards. Just like that, the mood changes. They all grow quiet and look at him, waiting.

”I know that we’re all tired, and we all want to go to bed and have a good nap,” he begins, ”but after tonight - we have to discuss certain security measures.”

A round of mumbling agreements follows.

”Good. Now, firstly, someone has to take guard duty each night. We can’t let Talon walk in and out of this base like it’s still unmanned. Clearly, the fact that we are here is not deterring them, but rather, inviting them in. We have to stay vigilant.”

”Pardon me if I translate this wrong, it is not my first language after all,” Genji says with a hint of a grimace, ”but I think in English, this means that we will all be losing even more sleep than before.”

”I was trying to make it sound less disappointing,” Winston says, smiling smally, ”Whoever it is each night will have to man the monitors for a couple hours at a time, just in case. Nap time during daylight hours, I think, can be expanded.”

”With our guest in a much better condition,” Angela starts, ”I can take extra hours. I have very little to do here as it is after I’ve performed the surgery on him, which will happen soon.”

”Yeah,” Lena says suddenly, ”Who is that guy, anyway?”

”My brother,” Genji tells her, ”We don’t know exactly how or why yet, but he landed in an altercation with some Talon agents - they mutilated him and left him for dead. We saw it best to take him in, his connections considered.”

”Can I speak freely?” Lena asks.  
She examines Genji carefully before turning to the others, all of them nodding in turn.  
”Look, I’m going to bypass the obvious - Genji has clearly been a part of this decision, and if he says it is fine, then it is fine - but we’ve taken in Talon victims with connections before, and remember how that turned out? He isn’t armed, is he?”

”Of course not,” Winston laughs, ”We wouldn’t...”  
The looks that Angela and Genji give each other make his sentence die out.  
”... would we?”

”He saved me,” Genji says, ”He’s proven himself.”

”Amélie had no idea what had happened to her either until something just snapped,” Lena reminds him.

Genji throws his head to the side as if to try and shake the thought off. He shivers.  
”I don’t think that is what happened to my brother,” he says then, quietly, ”Firstly, reprogramming a human being, no matter how psychologically vulnerable, takes its time. Our reports... _my_ reports tell me that Hanzo hasn’t been held captive. He’s travelled a lot, he’s - left a trail that I could easily follow. It ends on the day he was assaulted. It’s highly unlikely he’s been manipulated by Talon to any significant degree. Moreover, if they wanted him deadly, they wouldn’t have incapacitated him. No, I think what they wanted was to make sure that if they couldn’t have him, then at least he’s out of the playing field.”

”You think they tried to recruit him?” Angela asks.

”What else? Why else would Talon confront him? Why else would they attack him? He wasn’t hunting them. Hanzo is a neutral party. He has connections to me, yes, but everybody who knows that also knows that those connections have been severed completely. He has no sway over me or any other member of our team. At best, he’s been an enemy to us until now. Trying to play him as a sleeper agent makes no sense; Talon couldn’t have known that we’d swoop in to rescue him. Rather, they would have expected us not to do that. Nobody knows I’ve had contact with him after what he did to me. To the world, and especially to Talon who are not beyond looking for weakness in personal relationships, our link appears dead. It’s all but useless to them. Hanzo, as an individual, is not. He’s an excellent marksman and a highly skilled assassin. He has a reason to hate us and a reason to hate the world - and he has something to gain through Talon connections.”

Genji draws breath, waiting for everyone to catch up before he continues.

”I’d bet you anything they offered to rebuild his legacy - our empire - in return for his services. I’d also bet that he refused that offer, not once or twice but perhaps a hundred times, before Talon decided that it was too risky to let him stay loose. What if things ended up going differently between me and him after all? What if _we_ would get to him first? That, in their minds, is a risk factor.”

”So why is he still alive?” Lena asks, and Genji has to shrug - doing so sends a flash of pain through his body so suddenly that he lets out a gasp, and Angela, smiling empathetically, touches his hand in passing.

”I think,” Genji says once the pain passes, ”They were angry, and that’s about it. They wanted to make him regret rejecting them. A dead man has no regrets - Hanzo would know this better than anyone.”

”Which brings me to the next subject I need to discuss with you,” Winston says, and again, everybody turns towards him without question.

He seems a little taken aback by the fact and stutters with his next words.

”I think we should consider doing exactly what Talon fears we will do - and why I believe they sent their assassin after Hanzo last night, despite, if Genji’s theory is correct, once already deciding to let him live. I think we should try to recruit him.”

Genji’s heart skips a beat. Angela seems shocked - her sharp ”what?” is the first response that makes its way out. Lena blinks.

”I know, I know. But I’ve given this a lot of thought - I’m not throwing it out there lightly. Talon has Amélie, and Amélie has become perhaps the deadliest assassin the world has known for centuries. After Ana’s death... we have nothing. We all saw how that went last night. We can neither find this ’Widowmaker’ nor can we outshoot her. We can hide behind our shields, but our shields will not counter every bullet. What we need is an assassin on our side, someone who stands a fair chance at outdoing her in her own game - and as it stands, _Talon_ has delivered us just that.”

”Doing this, even if it was going to work, would be completely unethical,” Angela states sharply; her uncharacteristically strict tone of voice gains everyone’s attention much like Winston’s suggestion did before, ”Are you telling us that we should start putting pressure on a physically and psychologically vulnerable man who is completely at our mercy - a man who cannot, in the present, defend or take care of himself, and who has just been through a major traumatic experience? Do you know what that sounds like? If we go down this path, how can we claim we are in any way better than Talon?”

Winston lets out a small choked huff.

”No, that’s not exactly what I had in mind,” he says awkwardly, ”I’m not saying we try to brainwash him. All I’m suggesting is that we let him know the door is open.”

”Like Talon showed him the door is open?” Lena asks, although she doesn’t sound anywhere near as opposed to the idea as Angela does, ”If Genji’s right, he wasn’t very convinced. Besides, we’ve got nothing that he wants. After all, _we_ are the ones who destroyed his empire.”

Winston’s gaze turns towards Genji now.  
”But we do,” he says thoughtfully, ”have something that he wants.”

Genji stirs in his seat.

”What do you think, Genji?” the gorilla asks him, his voice sincere.

”I... don’t know,” Genji replies slowly, ”Hanzo has rejected me before. Many times.”

”What do you think he’s after? He’s certainly looking for something,” Winston asks, and Genji has an uncomfortable feeling that this question is rather rhetorical.

Still, he tries to answer it.

”He seeks redemption,” he says after a moment’s complete silence.

”From what? What was his crime?”

”Me,” Genji replies, this time with more confidence, ”I was his crime.”

”See?” Winston sighs, ”We’ve got a lot that he wants. All we need to do is show him that he can have it.”

”You’re not asking Genji what he wants,” Angela says, the sharp tone back in her voice, ”Does Genji want to play bait to the man who murdered him?”

”Angela, I did not die.”

Angela turns an angry look towards him.  
”You were drowning in your own blood when I first saw you, Genji. He left you for dead, and what we’re discussing here is giving you out like a piece of meat in trade - like none of what he put you through matters, as long as we get what we want! That - that _his_ desires matter more than your justice.”

”Angela,” Genji says, this time more firmly, ”I do not seek revenge any longer. I have made my peace. You must accept this.”

”It still hurts you!”

”It will _always_ hurt me. That does not mean I am beyond granting forgiveness.”

Angela swallows. She’s shaking, and her eyes are clear with tears that won’t fall out; Genji looks at her for a while before reaching out his hand and taking hers.

”You are not one to hold onto grudges either, my friend. Let me make this decision. I am sorry that it has to hurt you, too.”

She swallows hard, then looks down. For a while, they hear nothing more than a suffocated hiccup from her direction: it sounds like even the ocean outside has quieted down. Genji doesn’t let go of her hand, and in time, her fingers take a firmer hold of his in return.

”I hate that you have to go through this,” she says silently, so silently that her words barely carry across the table, ”I wish I could spare you from it.”

”I make my own decisions, Angela. You can’t protect me from what I have to do, but I appreciate you trying regardless.”

Angela nods. She wipes her eyes with her free hand and takes a large chug out of her coffee mug like it was half-filled with hard liquor. Then she pulls out her hand from Genji’s and rests them both over her lap. Genji takes a long breath, feeling his lungs fill up and his body press against its shell, and then lets it out, oxygen flooding him in a rush. It grounds him, and he empties his mind from all the excess noise - all the doubt, the longing, and leaves instead of it only the situation presented to him.

”I think we should try it,” he says then, ”I am willing to try it. I can’t tell you if my brother wants or is even able to consider the offer, but Winston is right; his presence is an opportunity that we shouldn’t ignore.”

Beside him, Angela chugs the rest of her coffee and stands up from the table in an upset manner. At first, she appears to be leaving the room, but instead she goes for the coffee maker now sitting a little distance away on a few boxes serving as kitchen counters, and tensely, she fills her mug up again. When she returns, she looks more in control of herself than before.

”I’ll give the patient an evaluation later today, after that I hope I can set a proper date for his surgery. I suggest that if you’re going to go through with this plan, you start before I operate. The sooner he can walk, the sooner he can walk out,” she says in a cool voice.

”I’ll take care of it,” Genji promises; he doesn’t know exactly how yet, but the responsibility seems to be his now regardless.

”Good. I’ll meet you there later today to see how your shoulder is healing. I can give you your shot while we’re at it. If you want, I can leave you two alone after that.”

Genji nods.  
”I’ll take a nap, then,” he says and stands up, his legs feeling a little shaky, ”I will see you all in a couple hours.”

 


	7. Many questions, few answers

* * *

 

The lights are off again, and the dormitory is pitch black. When the doors are sealed, not even the sound of the ocean or the gulls can pierce through, and with the machines around Hanzo now silent, he realises he was at least partially correct: the place does feel like a sensory deprivation chamber. Over and over again, his fingers trail over the shape of his Storm Bow - he placed it beside his bed once, but soon enough pulled it back over his stomach where it’s stayed ever since, although the quiver still sits against the wall. It brings him a sense of comfort, a sliver of the independence that he craves for and which feels so distant now. With everyone gone and the room silent, even though there’s no danger from the outside anymore, he needs something to ground him. Something that feels... familiar.

A very long time ago, Hanzo, like many children that age, had a favourite blanket. He doesn’t remember it himself, but he imagines his younger self feeling much like he does now when he carried that blanket with him everywhere. He was allowed to hold onto it for a long time: he must have been around six years old when his father finally took it from him and secretly threw it away while he was asleep. After that, he’d been told, he’d used to sneak into Genji’s room and sleep beside his brother instead, and it had taken months before he’d adjusted to sleeping alone. That he remembers, although vaguely; Genji’s soft hair pressing against his cheek, his small toddler hand holding Hanzo’s as he slept. He remembers how proud he felt at that time, how excited, to be a big brother. He’d been told that Genji would always have his back no matter what - that they would share everything together, even the responsibility that Hanzo was to inherit. He’d had these dreams about what they would become, shaped mostly by his own childish naivety and his father’s tales, but Genji had never grown up to follow them. Genji’s dreams had been different. Even as a child, he’d rather played with outsiders than with Hanzo, although, in retrospect, it didn’t come as a surprise. He’s right: Hanzo had loved playing the devil for him. He’d enjoyed the power he had over Genji, taking pleasure in beating him in practice fights, sports, school and in the eyes of their mentors - if he’d been better at something, he’d made sure that Genji would never have the chance to forget about it. The only things he _hadn’t_ been very good at were video games, and it seemed that Genji had latched onto that sense of superiority. As a teen, he’d never been too far from the arcade; even when they were supposed to be training, he could often be found there rather than at the dojo.

Genji had done a lot of other things as a teenager, too. He’d ran away a few times, although their father had always been rather lenient and understanding about it. It was when he started messing around with girls that Sojiro had began tightening the rules for him - he’d told Genji the same thing he’d told Hanzo very early on, that while he couldn’t stop them from doing what their nature would drive them into anyway, they’d have to be careful about it; the last thing the clan needed was a bastard from their bloodline challenging the legitimate Shimada leadership. It hadn’t stopped Genji from trying, however: he’d had a different girl for every day of the week when he’d wanted it so. He’d sneaked into bars and clubs much before he was of legal age to drink, and had brought shame to the family by sleeping off the alcohol in his blood wherever he damn well pleased. Sometimes, he would stay overnight at the dojo; at others, he would simply collapse on the castle’s tatami floors and sleep there, curled up in his party clothes, the katana that he always carried around with him as a sign of his status and authority and, mostly, to appear mysterious and attractive to girls, still hanging on him within an arms reach.

Meanwhile, Hanzo had played the role of the proper heir. He’d never slept around much - in fact, he’d only ever had one girl, Megumi, who’d taken his boyhood when he’d been 17. Even then, he remembers little else than the panic afterwards - what if he’d gotten her pregnant? She’d held him close and kissed his forehead and told him that she’d take him for her husband, and he’d believed her, and briefly, in some post-coital haze, even hoped for the worst outcome. She’d been gone the year after, when Hanzo’s growing responsibilities in the clan had taken priority over their relationship, but it had been one of the better periods in his life.

Everything that Genji had rejected, Hanzo had embraced. Tradition, family honour, responsibility: while Genji had partied, Hanzo had sat with his father at the meetings with other clan leaders, listening and learning from the most powerful families in Japan’s underground world. It was like an opposite universe to the colourful world that Genji inhabited, this one cast in black and white with strict rules that dictated everything from behaviour to clothing and relationships, but Hanzo had felt at home in it. The predictability of clear power dynamics and the challenge of manipulating the course of their clan’s actions had given him solace like few other things. He’d felt pride and satisfaction when he could rule beside his father, give orders and see them executed flawlessly by men sworn to obey him. He still remembers the first time his father gave him the permission to speak at a meeting, and the way his voice had been listened to, the way the old men around him had grown silent and respected what he had to say as the heir of the clan amongst clans. He’d never forget it.

Cold spreads into his limbs when his mind recalls what came next. His father’s dead body - the dullness of his dried out eyes that nobody could close, the stiffness of his body. The family elders whispering things to Hanzo day and night, telling him of his brother’s actions, telling him how the clan was growing restless and doubtful of his ability to lead them. Telling him that Sojiro had been weak when it came to his youngest son, and that Hanzo would have to do better by the clan; that it was his responsibility as the new leader to do what his father had never been able to achieve.

He remembers the confrontation, but not the words. Just flashes of it, glimpses of the banner gently flapping against the wall behind it, the feel of the tatami underneath his feet, and Genji’s eyes, filled with rebellious anger, with disappointment.

 _I warn you,_ his own voice echoes in his mind.

He hadn’t given another one. He’d always beaten Genji at kenjutsu, and somehow, when he drew his blade against his brother, he’d gone back to the dojo in his mind. The blood had been unreal to him at the time. Rather, he’d felt the night wind at his back, how it had caressed his neck while the warm wetness grew over his face and his hands. He’d watched how the red seeped into tatami floors and worried about ruining them, worried about the work that would go into replacing them. Briefly, he’d regretted killing Genji inside at all - he could have done it underneath the trees in the courtyard instead, where the ground would have drank his blood.

He doesn’t remember much else from that night, and even now, going back to it makes his skin crawl and his throat close up on him. He shakes with cold and the darkness presses against him, and in the swirling lights that cover his vision, he can see Hanamura as clearly as if he was standing there now. It takes him a good few moments to grow aware of the lights flickering on while he’s still gasping for air, and even more to understand that someone’s holding his shoulder and looking into his eyes.

Doctor Ziegler stands beside his bed, a concerned look in her eyes. She’s got her finger over his wrist and he wants to shake it off, but all he can do is tremble, eyes lined with tears and his breath catching in his throat.

”Genji,” Hanzo breathes out, ”I - I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His hand grabs Ziegler’s wrist and he holds it, closing his eyes, feeling like he’s drowning in the bed - as if everything is swaying around him, and there’s no air. It’s happened before, many times, and sake has been the only thing that has given him relief from it. Somewhere far away, he feels the touch of Ziegler’s fingers around his own wrist, but little by little his awareness of it grows, and he comes to feel the smoothness of her skin and the warmth of her hand around the coldness of his own, and she’s saying something to him although it feels nearly impossible to concentrate on her words. Then she’s gone, and he’s still shaking, the straw grid of the tatami pressing into his knees. His heart is beating so hard that his whole body hurts, and all he can feel beyond that pain is the slippery heat of freshly spilled blood on his skin and all over him, weighing down his clothes.

”Take this,” Ziegler’s voice tells him, and she presses something into his palm with a serious expression on her features, ”It will help.”

She helps him up and watches him clutch the object she gave him senselessly, trembling hard. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he realises that it’s a pill of some kind and that he’s supposed to swallow it, not just hold it, but the guilt comes over him hard and he fears relief from the overwhelming discomfort almost as much as he fears the discomfort itself.

”I can’t - I don’t - deserve.”

”Can you at least talk to me?” Ziegler asks; she sits beside him on the bed, close enough for her heat to reflect against Hanzo’s body, ”Whatever you’re going through, it’s inside your head. You’re in Gibraltar.”

”Genji -”

”Genji’s asleep.”

Hanzo shudders and closes his eyes.  
”What I did - I cannot - there’s nothing... nothing I can ever do...”

”You can take the pill I gave you.”

Slowly, Hanzo nods; he brings the pill to his lips and takes it, uncaring what will happen next. His muscles feel so tense that it’s difficult to move, and yet he feels weak, almost as if he’s about to faint; he doesn’t trust his movements, and the pill, as small as it is, gets stuck briefly on its way down.

”Your brother is safe, Hanzo,” Ziegler says to him in a steady, low voice.

”I don’t... deserve... to be here,” Hanzo mutters, his words hitching with his uneven breathing.

”Perhaps you don’t, but you didn’t have a choice.”

”I did have a choice. I always, always had a choice - I made the wrong ones, over and over again. If there was a way - if I could go back, if -”

”I need you to concentrate on what you feel right now. Can you tell me where you are?”

Hanzo looks around, unsure of what he should be seeing.  
”Gibraltar,” he repeats her words, ”At a Watchpoint - in Gibraltar.”

”Can you be more specific?”

”I’m - in a dormitory room. What difference does it make?”

”Can you take a hold of your bow?”

For a moment, Hanzo stares idly at the bow on his lap. Then, he moves his shaking hand over the grip.

”Can you describe the texture to me?”

”Why? I don’t -”

”Humour me. I want to know what it feels like in your hand.”

”Smooth. It’s smooth and hard.”

”Warm or cold?”

”Warm. Or it feels warm - my hand is cold.”

”How long have you had it?”

”For... years. It was made for me, I spent much of what I had left on it. I’ve never had a better weapon. I needed something - something I could rely on.”

”Something that was yours?”

Hanzo nods.  
”It has saved my life many times,” he says quietly, his voice rough in his own ears, ”but it has taken many more.”

Ziegler shifts. She doesn’t say anything for a while, but while she’s been talking, Hanzo’s body has grown warmer again - heavier. His heart has stopped racing so hard and instead, he feels drowsy and slow now, almost as if drunk.

”Are you feeling any better yet?” Ziegler finally asks him, turning her gaze towards him and meeting his eyes. Her expression is unreadable.

”I am.”

”I’d like to talk about your treatment. Do you think this is a bad time?”

Hanzo shakes his head slowly.  
”No. I - I’m listening.”

”Good,” Ziegler says, turning away.  
She seems to brace herself for something, but before she speaks, Hanzo continues instead.

”You told me to consider medication,” he says, trying to keep his thoughts together through the haze the pill has left him with, ”and I’ve thought about it.”

”That is good to hear. Are you still opposed to the idea?”

”The thoughts... that I have,” Hanzo says, his voice suffocated and his cheeks burning with shame, ”when I’m left alone - for years now - sometimes, they feel... unbearable.”

”I know enough of your history to tell you that I’d be surprised if you didn’t feel that way. How do you cope with these thoughts?”

”I feel like I deserve to have them.”

”You don’t.”

”And you don’t believe yourself when you say that,” Hanzo tells her shortly, his eyes briefly visiting hers but falling back towards his bow soon after, ”We both know what I’ve done, and the pain that I feel because of my actions is just.”

”When you say unbearable, do you mean that you think it would be better if you were dead?”

”I haven’t earned the right to die.”

”But do you think it would better?”

Hanzo hesitates. Then, slowly, he nods.  
”Without a doubt.”

Ziegler watches him; he can feel her gaze moving about him for a while before he can muster up the strength to look back at her. He still can’t read her expression, but the weight in his own body has turned into a sensation of powerlessness and dissociation, like he’s watching this scene from somewhere else.

”As a professional,” Ziegler finally says, ”I think it’s very important that you start taking medication to help you cope with these thoughts.”

”I cannot medicate away my responsibility. What I feel is the consequence of my choices; I deserve it.”

”What you feel is diagnosable as clinical depression. Based on your other symptoms and your history, I think it’s very likely that you’re dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder as well. Both of these are extremely serious conditions - you know this, which is why you brought up the subject of medication.”

For a moment, Hanzo doesn’t speak. His fingertips trail over his bow again and his mind feels empty, but not in a peaceful way - rather, it feels like the thoughts that should be filling it are simply too much for him to bear. He’s never spoken about this before, and he’s not sure why he’s doing it now. Knowing that Ziegler doesn’t like him somehow feels relieving; he can trust her to tell him the truth without trying to make it sound more pleasant to him, and at the same time, his suffering shouldn’t burden her too much, not in the way it could burden someone who’d made the mistake of caring about him.

”Why should I try to make my life more bearable?” he finally asks, ”It would be dishonourable to seek escape from the pain that I’ve brought upon myself.”

”Depression is incapacitating. It makes it very difficult for you to work towards your goals - in this case, it hinders you when you try to right your past mistakes. It causes you to cling to your past rather than letting you do what’s right in this moment, and without the ability to concentrate on your present and your future, how can you hope to change anything? It makes you tired and unfocused, it isolates you and makes it hard for you think objectively. It puts you at risk for addiction and reckless behaviour, and even if your guilt keeps you from deliberately harming yourself, you sound like you still knowingly put yourself into dangerous situations in the hopes that someone else will hurt you in the ways that you wish you could hurt yourself.”

Hanzo shivers. He battles with himself for a moment before looking away again.  
”You wanted to talk about something else?” he says then, avoiding Ziegler’s gaze.

She sighs.  
”Yes,” she carries on, allowing him to change the subject, ”I wanted to see how well you’ve healed so far to decide when’s the best time for your surgery.”

”I see.”

”Do you still have doubts regarding the prostheses?”

Hanzo shakes his head.  
”No. It doesn’t matter.”

”I’d argue that it matters quite a lot.”

”I have to accept it. What other choice do I have? Nothing can change what was done to me, but I am still a Shimada - I do what I must do.”

”It’s funny you’d say that,” Ziegler says quietly, ”Your brother said almost the same thing ten years ago.”

 

* * *

 

When Genji wakes up, it’s later than he anticipated. Groggy, he pulls off his one-piece suit and starts putting his armour back together. Piece by piece, he becomes a living weapon again, ready for anything; his wakizashi presses against his body and his shurikens rest ready underneath the metal protecting his arm, and once his body is secure from every angle, he pulls on his katana, feeling its familiar weight balance him.

”Now try and catch me off-guard,” he mumbles, his palm resting over the dull ache in his shoulder - thanks to Angela’s skills and the unique structure of his body, he’s already healing quickly, but the bruising will last a long time still.

With that, he exits his makeshift bedroom. As he climbs onto the rooftop, he can see Lena practicing in the yard: her guns are quiet, their sounds barely echoing between the buildings. Unseen, he continues on towards the dormitory - he’ll have time to talk to Lena later.

Descending the stairs, Genji sees Angela at her desk again. Hanzo sees him first; he sits in his bed with a steaming mug in his hand, looking tired and serious. His bow still rests over his lap, and Genji wonders if it’s been there the whole time, and if its weight or its presence makes his brother feel more secure or in control of his circumstances. Either way, he doesn’t seem ready to shoot it at either him or Angela yet.

”You wanted to take a look at my shoulder,” Genji greets Angela, turning away from Hanzo who returns the gesture by looking at his mug instead.

Angela spins around in her chair, looking relieved to see him. Then her expression changes: squinting, she looks him up and down before setting her eyes upon his visor.

”You look like you’re headed on a mission,” she says.

Genji shrugs. The movement barely hurts anymore.  
”It seems that we are not safe here,” he replies in an indifferent tone, ”I might as well be prepared for the next time somebody wants to take a shot at me.”

”Suit yourself.”

He sits down on the bed opposite to Hanzo’s again, and for a moment, they look at each other. A shiver rushes down Genji’s spine, and after brief hesitation, he undoes his visor. The slightest smile crosses Hanzo’s lips and he nods, and Genji nods back at him, his heart racing a little faster as he does so. Angela sits beside him, a syringe, two needles and a glass ampule in her other hand: she places them on the bed next to them to wait and, with hands well used to the mechanics of Genji’s armour, undoes the plates protecting his chest and shoulder on the left side.

”How does it feel?” she asks him.

”Much better,” Genji replies, rolling his shoulder carefully to show its mobility, ”I think tomorrow most of the pain should be gone already.”

Angela nods. She spends some time stretching and prodding at the artificial tissue over the gunshot wound, testing out the elasticity and durability of the repaired area, but not too long after, she nods with satisfaction and picks up a syringe instead. Genji watches her break the ampule and slip the filter needle inside - while she’s drawing up the colourless, thick liquid inside, his eyes move back to Hanzo. He smirks under his mask, trying to drive away the sense of discomfort he feels under his brother’s eyes.

”What?” he asks, ”Not fond of needles, brother?”

Hanzo squints at him, but doesn’t say anything. His eyes return to Angela’s hands as she switches out the filter needle for the much thinner one.

”You know the drill,” she says as she brings the needle against the top of Genji’s arm; he feels a brief pressure against the trimmed muscle connecting to his cybernetic arm, but no pain follows it.

While Angela empties the syringe into him, he keeps his eyes on Hanzo, who looks back at him, his expression conflicted. When the needle comes out once more, Genji gives Angela a short smile and nods.

”Thank you - as always.”

”You know it’s no trouble. I’ll go take my nap now - don’t be surprised if it continues until morning.”

Genji chuckles quietly.  
”I’ll keep our guest company,” he promises, ”and I'll take a look at those monitors if he, too, wants to get some sleep tonight, or simply grows tired of my presence here.”

Angela nods.  
”I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, and then, as she stands up to discard the used needles and the two halves of the ampule, she gives Hanzo one last examining look.

Two minutes later, she’s packed up and left the dormitory. Without her, it feels bigger and emptier, and Genji realises that it’s very quiet, too: the monitors around Hanzo’s bed are silent and blank now, and nothing else in the room makes a sound.

”What did she give you?” Hanzo asks him after they’ve sat in silence for a good minute or so.

”Just something my body needs,” Genji tells him in a light voice, hiding well the sting of pain that follows the question, ”and it’s nothing that I didn’t have in me before.”

Hanzo squints at him again.

”I’m trying to say that it’s not a cyborg thing,” Genji clarifies awkwardly.

”I see.”

”Why, are you concerned?”

A shadow of discomfort moves over Hanzo’s features: he looks away, his palm caressing the shape of the bow’s grip.

”No. It’s nothing to do with me, after all,” Hanzo says, looking at the corner of the bed nearest to the stairway out of the room.

”No, it really isn’t.”

In the silence that follows, Genji replaces the armour over his shoulder and stands up. He moves beside the chair next to Hanzo’s bed, but reconsiders sitting in it once he’s there. Instead, he hops lightly onto the bed and sits at the foot end of it, undoing the lower half of his mask as he does so. He places it on the chair and wets his upper lip with a quick flick of his tongue.

”You seem troubled,” he states the obvious, watching Hanzo as his fist tightens around the weapon’s grip.

”I have much to think,” the older brother grunts shortly.

”Would you like to keep thinking, or should we talk about something else?”

Genji watches curiously as Hanzo battles through it. He doesn’t seem to reach a clear conclusion, however, and after pulling one leg up against his chest, Genji decides it’s better if he keeps the conversation going.

”If you’re really interested,” he starts, ”my body requires quite a bit of maintenance to stay healthy. I still need all sorts of nutrients and other things to keep me going, but my system doesn’t really function too well after all that it went through. Parts of my stomach have been replaced, so I have to watch what I eat, because not everything processes the same anymore. And because of that, I have to have my blood monitored, too; sometimes I get malnourished when something didn’t digest properly, or my immune system starts going mad and attacks the artificial parts of me again. My body also doesn’t produce hormones anymore, so... you know. Injections.”

He takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a chuckle.  
”Does that take your mind off your problems yet, brother?”

”I had... no idea,” Hanzo replies quietly, and Genji can see the stillness in him, the tension and the shudder that runs through him.

”I’m used to it by now, and I’ve made my peace with it. Everything considered, it could have turned out a lot worse. I’m still alive, for one. Like I said, I prefer it that way, even if existing is a bit - how to put it - demanding at times."

Hanzo nods shortly. Prompted by a sudden flash of courage - after all, what is the worst that could happen? - Genji reaches towards him and, despite the way Hanzo flinches, he presses his fingers underneath his chin, sensory pads up so that he can feel the texture of his rough facial hair against his fingertips, and he lifts Hanzo's head up. He smiles, watching Hanzo’s eyes widen and his pupils expand with adrenaline.

”You asked me a question,” he says then in a calm voice, ”that I didn’t have the chance to answer before Talon paid us an unexpected visit. Do you still want to hear the answer to that question?”

He pulls his hand back, and Hanzo doesn’t lower his head again. Carefully, the older brother nods.  
”I do.”

”It’s complicated,” Genji tells him, ”At times, I do hate you. However - I have met someone very important in my life who changed the way I look at it. He told me that what I feel is inevitable, but it doesn’t have to define who I am. I do not have to become my anger. I can overcome it, and through forgiveness, I can overcome myself.”

”I haven’t earned your forgiveness, Genji.”

”No. But forgiveness is a gift, and it cannot be earned - it can only be given.”

Hanzo opens his mouth, but only a quiet breath comes out before he closes it again and shakes his head.  
”Who are you?” he asks then, his expression hardening again, ”Is there anything left of my brother?”

”Ah, I haven’t changed that much. I still like the same things. Chocolate, procrastination, girls - slicing through my enemies - I’ve just grown older, that’s all.”

”Girls?” Hanzo repeats, ”I thought -”

”Don’t say it,” Genji huffs, ”You understood perfectly right. Doesn’t mean that I’m going to give up one of the greatest pleasures in life - hearing a girl moan my name with a part of me deep inside her. Trust me, I’m still good at it.”

A deep blush rushes over Hanzo’s cheeks, and Genji can’t help but laugh at him.

”Shit. Hanzo, if I didn’t know you better, I’d bet any money that you’re still a virgin.”

”We don’t talk about these things,” Hanzo snarls at him, looking away again, ”I don’t want to know what you get up to with women.”

”You brought this on yourself. What? I’ve never had a sense of shame, shouldn’t you know that better than anyone?”

A hesitant smile visits Hanzo’s lips, briefly tugging the corners of his mouth up before vanishing again.

”See? Still the same Genji,” Genji says, leaning forwards.

”I suppose there are - some things that have not changed,” Hanzo huffs, his voice for once warm.  
That same warmth lingers in his eyes when he looks up at Genji.

”Do you remember how the story about the dragons ends?” Genji asks him.  
A flash of anxiety rushes through him, but he tries his best to ignore it. This is the best chance he has at bringing the subject up - he might not get another one.

”I do."

”You told me I was a fool for believing in those stories, but you’ve had the same dream, haven’t you.”

Hanzo’s expression turns uncertain.  
”It is a stupid story,” he says after a few moments of silence, ”A children’s fairytale, nothing more.”

”Aren’t all dreams a little stupid?” Genji asks, ”Men need those kind of stories to remind us that the world can be good - that we can make it better together.”

”What are you saying?”

”I think you know what I’m saying. The signs are not good, Hanzo; there is a war coming, and it seems all but inevitable now. Very few people can fight to change the course of history. I want to be one of those people. I want to fight for a better world. But I don’t want to do it alone.”

Hanzo’s eyes widen again. He draws back, glances away and then comes back with disbelief on his features.

”You are my blood,” Genji continues, pushing him now while he’s still listening, ”A Shimada - a dragon, like I am. There is no one I’d rather fight beside than you, brother.”

”Genji -”

”I don’t want your answer now. Not yet. You’re not ready, and neither am I. I am asking a lot, I know this, but I want you to give it the time it deserves. I’ve spoken with the others, and they agree, more or less; if you really want a second chance, this is it.”

Genji sees Hanzo fight back his words; he seems to physically swallow them down before his expression settles and he nods carefully. The younger brother can’t hold back the relief on his features, and this time, it’s him who looks away. He fights back his smile for a while before daring to look at Hanzo again.

”What you did to me was horrible, but I understand now why you did it, and I don’t want you to throw away your life because of it. You can heal, just like I have. You _must_ heal; that’s the only way you’ll ever find peace.”

He looks down when he sees a tear flow down Hanzo’s cheek, if only to cover the ones in his own eyes. Soon, the lights flicker off, but neither of them moves to trigger the motion sensors again.

 


	8. A chapter in a story

* * *

 

  
Over the next few days, Hanzo thinks. He spends the majority of his time sitting in his bed, making his way through Angela’s books one by one, avoiding human contact as much as it’s humanely possible to do so when most of his waking hours are haunted by at least one other person’s presence looming over him. Genji doesn’t seem to mind the silence - he comes and goes as he pleases, often sitting down at the foot of Hanzo’s bed while he’s reading, and settles to meditate there, sometimes for hours at a time. At first, his presence made Hanzo uncomfortable: the unanswered questions seemed to linger between them and although he refused to even make eye contact to his younger brother, he’d always feel as if he was supposed to say something to break the silence. When hours pass, then days, he stops feeling that way. Genji seems to want nothing from him - he’s simply found a good place to be quiet there beside him, just like he did when they were much younger still.

Eventually, Ziegler clears him for surgery. As he’s bandaging his legs after an examination, Genji gone for the time being, he finally finds his voice to talk to her.

”Doctor Ziegler?”

”Yes?”

”About... the medication.”

Ziegler lifts her head: she’s sitting on her table again, but slides off it when he brings up the subject. Like Genji, she’s taken to sitting on the bed while talking to him, and why not - without Hanzo’s legs taking up the space, it’s half empty most of the time anyway.

”I want to know what it would do.”

”I was thinking of prescribing something that could potentially alleviate symptoms of both your disorders at once. Luckily, PTSD is treated largely with the same medications as a depressive disorder would be,” Ziegler says - she seems to have expected this, or at least she seems to know exactly what to say now that he’s asked.

”These types of medicines decrease the amount of serotonin that your brain reabsorbs - that means you’re left with more to work with, which should improve your mood and give you more energy to concentrate on the things you want to get done.”

Hanzo nods; the thought of taking a pill to fix what he’s learned to view as his punishment still makes him uneasy, but after Genji’s offer, he’s no longer sure which way to go.

”Ironically, at first you might end up feeling more tired than usual, or even feel worse psychologically speaking,” Ziegler goes on, her voice steady and casual as if she was talking about prescribing him medicine for a cold, ”but the side-effects pass relatively quickly if the medication is right for you, and generally don’t tend to cause much of a headache, literally or figuratively, if you time the intake right. I’d recommend taking your pill before going to bed - this way, the tiredness won’t matter and might even improve your sleep, and in case the medicine would cause nausea or dizziness, you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

Hanzo sighs.  
”What are the odds it will kill me?”

Ziegler smiles crookedly.  
”Much smaller than you’d like, I’m afraid.”

They share a look, Ziegler’s smile staying on her as she watches him.

”Well? Would you be willing to give it a try?” she asks.

Slowly, Hanzo nods again. He looks away, feeling the familiar heat of shame growing over his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

”Good. I’ll make sure you can start today. There’s another thing I’d also like to do today, if you feel ready for it.”

Hanzo lifts his gaze back to her carefully.

”We have to fit the prostheses before I can add the implants,” Ziegler reminds him, ”I thought now would be a good time to do it. I expect them to fit well, but it’s still crucial to know exactly where the connecting points should be placed.”

”I am ready.”

”Good.”

Ziegler stands up. She looks him up and down once before nodding to herself.  
”You can hold off from finishing with the bandages - this will only take a moment. I’ll add a layer of colour over the sensors inside the prostheses which will stick to your skin when we take them off again, marking the areas for surgery. Of course, this also means you’ll get the first experience of what wearing the prostheses will feel like, but without the ability to communicate with them, I’m afraid there won’t be much you can do with them yet. So if it feels strange or unnatural, don’t be too discouraged: once they’re connected to your body, they should feel much more responsive and comfortable to wear.”

She walks away to pick up the prostheses. It’s the second time Hanzo sees them, and this time, he’s a little better equipped to pay proper attention. Their sleek design looks light enough, the inner part firm yet elastic, with the ridged reinforcements over the heels and soles providing good grip for most surfaces. The front resembles a goat’s cloven hoof with two metal pieces reaching around the foot’s ball and toes; it widens just enough to guarantee a good balance when leaning onto the front of the foot, providing both the stability and flexibility required for running and jumping. He keeps his eyes on them while he undoes the bandages he’s already managed to wrap around his limbs: it still isn’t easy to look at what remains of them, and every time he does, a distinctive, painful pressure settles into his chest, making him feel trapped and out of breath.

Afterwards, he feels rather naked; it’s been a very long time since he’s last shown this much skin to anybody. He’d expected the sensation to fade over time - Ziegler’s seen just about everything there is to be seen already - but every time she comes close to him and his thighs are bare, the rest of his body barely covered by nothing but the light underwear provided free of charge to a now extinct military organization, he feels ashamed and exposed. He doesn’t know if Ziegler’s lack of interest towards his body makes it any easier. In some way, her casual indifference towards his appearance makes it easier for him to let her close, but at the same time, the manner in which she treats his body like an impersonal object reinforces the feeling that it no longer belongs to him, and that instead, it has become something that can be manipulated by others regardless of his will. Ever since he woke up, his body’s felt defiled and destroyed; it adds to the feeling of powerlessness that haunts him, like he no longer holds any control over his own existence.

To his surprise, Ziegler's still smiling at him when she sits back down on the bed. She does it rarely, and even when she does, it’s often a tired-looking smile - a polite one, nothing more, but even then he welcomes it. Now, it almost seems like more than that; for the time being, it almost appears as if she’s forgotten to dislike him.

”Ready?” she asks him.

He nods, and she hands him one of the prostheses.

”Just slide your leg in. If it fits properly, the suction will push out any excess air and hold the prostheses firmly in place.”

He’s aware of her eyes on his limb when he does what she told him to. It’s a strange feeling, and at first, a very uncomfortable one: the residual limb feels raw like all its nerves were exposed as he places it in the socket. The sensation of the prosthetic leg quite literally grabbing a hold of him makes him tense up with discomfort, but after he’s given it a moment, the pressure stabilizes and, although he can still feel the dead weight of the extra length tied up to his knee, the seam itself becomes indistinguishable, as if invisible, around his limb.

”How does it feel?”

”Strange. Not... necessarily in a bad way. It’s hard to tell,” Hanzo says, his voice hesitant as he tries to keep up with the signals his body’s sending him.

”Try the other one.”

He does. It feels just about the same, and fits as perfectly; his legs trembling slightly, he lifts them one by one, then crosses them underneath him, bending them into the right position by hand. It’s hard to trust that the prostheses won’t fall off. As he moves, he becomes momentarily aware of the way the sockets hold onto him again, but once he sits there cross-legged, he suddenly feels... whole. It seems as if his body recognises itself again - like every part of him is exactly as it should be. Shaken, he looks at Ziegler and nods.

”They’re perfect,” he tells her.

 

* * *

 

Genji spends the morning of Hanzo’s surgery doing what he’s done the past days anyway: sitting with him and keeping him company without speaking much. This time, there’s no book, and he doesn’t meditate. Instead, they both sit silently on the bed, bodies posed opposite of each other but eyes aimed elsewhere, and listen to the radio station quietly playing on Angela’s computer. He stays there until Angela tells him to leave; he smiles at his brother as he puts on his mask and turns away, skipping the stairs up and out into the storage hall. As he passes over platforms and walkways into the overcast daylight, he hears a buzzing sound, like an angry bunch of bees approaching him, and he lifts his gaze up into the sky, spotting an approaching post drone. He watches it hover beside the doorway to Winston’s lab and how it soon drops a letter there, and then as it charges back up and over the cliff looming over the building’s entrance. Heart skipping a beat, he starts jogging towards the letter: he knows it’s for him before he even picks it up, recognising the handwriting spelling his name and the Watchpoint’s exact coordinates for customized delivery.

With the letter in his grasp, he runs over to the cliff. There slips the envelope between his teeth and starts climbing down until he finds a good spot to sit on. The ocean opens up steel grey and angry underneath him, but its sprays can’t quite reach him this high up. Some vines surround his rock and end up resting over his shoulders like he’s a permanent fixture between them as he settles there, undoes his visor and starts tearing open the envelope.

 

 _Genji,_ the letter starts, _it is good to hear from you._

 _I hope that by the time my word reaches you, you have already found answers to many of your questions. Before I address them, I have to say that I’m happy to hear_ _that_ _you are amongst friends. You’ve spoken fondly of them, and I am sure that their company will help you deal with the doubts and fears that you’ve expressed in your letter to me. Don’t be afraid to confide in them should you need them - I am certain they will value your trust._

_You worry needlessly about my approval. The way you choose to face the obstacles that life has presented you is entirely your own decision - there is no right or wrong way to confront them. I am proud of the will and courage you show in choosing to search for your answers this directly, and I hope that your journey brings you understanding. You were also concerned about interfering with your brother’s path for selfish reasons, but all that we do in life will always be partially driven by our own needs and desires. It is simply the way we are built. This does not mean that you are doing wrong by your brother, or that your intentions towards him are corrupt. You can seek to help someone because you need it to move forwards in your own life, and have your help still benefit his journey as well. In your brother’s case, I am certain that you are reaching out to a soul who desperately needs another’s help in finding the right path. Your love for him is the greatest gift you can offer - he is lucky to have a brother like yourself, but if he remains blind to it, you cannot force his love in return. Should he still reject you, you must accept this, too._

_Hanzo has done his share in shaping the person you are today, but he has not created you, nor can he hold you back from what you will become; you are not the result of your brother’s actions, Genji, but a man in your own right, and only you can decide what to make of that. Whatever happens between you now is only one more chapter in the story of your life, and although it is an important one, you will persevere and flourish regardless of the outcome. This is not his story, but yours: the only thing that Hanzo can decide is whether he wants to share a part in it. Whatever his decision, remember that he is but one of the many who will still cross paths with you, and he will not be the only one you’ll love._

_I understand that Gibraltar is rainy this time of the year, but I hope that you will find light shining upon you on this day._

_\- Your friend, Zenyatta_

 

Genji sits quietly for a while, holding onto the letter. His breath feels shaky in his throat even as he lifts his gaze from the paper and looks at the ocean beneath him lapping upsetly at the cliff’s foot. Suddenly, he misses his room in Nepal: he misses the distance between himself and the mountains, and the glimmer of sunlight upon the icy peaks. He misses the scent of incenses and the way the photo of him and Hanzo was set upon his table, and the times that he sat there, deep in thought, with his fingertip absently tracing the features of his younger self so confidently standing there beside his brother, believing that it would last forever. He can almost hear Zenyatta’s voice now, and he wishes he was closer to him; even through his letter, the advice his mentor has given him feels like a burden has been lifted from his shoulders.

He drags in a deep breath, reflecting back on the day not too long ago that he sat with Angela on the overpass, unsure if he could even hang onto the forgiveness he’d promised Hanzo when they’d met in Hanamura. He’s come far from it, and certainly, some of his questions have been answered: he has forgiven Hanzo, and his forgiveness has stood against the test of letting him once more become a part of Genji’s life, no matter how briefly it might last. He’s forgotten most of his anger, too, but instead, he now finds himself overcome with longing and hope: hope of things that could be, and things that he knows are impossible. He looks down at the letter again and reads the last paragraph again: _you will persevere and flourish regardless of the outcome._

Zenyatta is right: whatever Hanzo chooses, the only thing that Genji can do about it is accept it as it comes. Still, he’s noticed that the hope of having more is now the thing that gets him up in the morning. For years, he’s wandered in search of himself, and on his own, Hanzo has done the same. Surely, they’ve both learned things about themselves, and for Genji, his journey has helped him understand himself better and accept and embrace the parts of him that he couldn’t love before. Yet there have always been things that he simply couldn't seem to put together on his own, and only reaching out for his brother has helped him quiet down the stubborn ache in his soul stemming from them. Now, he’s come so close to mending it altogether that the thought of letting go of it once and for all terrifies him more than ever: after believing for so long that it was impossible to heal from what happened between them, he’s now seen recognition and perhaps even affection in his brother’s eyes, although Hanzo has never really had the words to express those things out loud.

He’s not sure which would be worse: to have Hanzo reject him for the last time and part ways with him forever, or to have him back with all that would follow after. They’re far from healed, the gaping wound cut into their relationship still as fresh as the day it tore them apart, and words don’t come easy to them. They’ve been strangers for most of their adulthood, and their paths first parted much earlier than that. The brothers that Genji dreams about have never existed - how could they come to exist now, after all these years apart, even if Hanzo agreed to stay? What if after all this, they’d become nothing more than uneasy allies who share a past that cannot be addressed? Zenyatta’s words offer no advice to this; not even Genji’s teacher can tell the future.

The moist wind from the sea blows against the visible part of Genji's face, and he feels tears staining his cheekbones on both sides. He lifts his gaze and looks at the horizon, barely seeing it at all, and thinks of the past days; Hanzo’s been quiet before. He’s always been the type to retreat into his own world when he’s needed space, and Genji has always given him that space, although much like now, he’s often found these spells the easiest time to be near his brother. He remembers the last time well - the silence lasted for days before the final confrontation that finally severed them for what then had seemed like forever. Sometimes, Genji’s wondered if things would have been different had Hanzo only learned to share his thoughts, but they’ve never been quite close enough to consider it. Even Genji, who never grew to embrace the culture that wanted him to turn off his feelings and only present the best of himself to the world, never shared much with his brother. So how could Hanzo have done that, when all the responsibilities and expectations of their world rested upon his shoulders? And now, once again, they’re back at the same square. Some days earlier, Angela told Genji in the passing that the prostheses had fit Hanzo well, yet Hanzo had never told him about it. He’d never so much as mentioned the fitting, much less what he’d felt wearing the prostheses. At this moment, very close to the cliff that Genji sits on, he’s under for surgery, and Genji still has no idea what he was thinking when he went in. Was he hopeful? Distraught? Did he simply submit to the inevitable, or was there something else to it that he’d never shared with anybody?

Once more, he looks down at the letter, looking for some wisdom to tell him how to move forwards.

 _I am certain that you are reaching out to a soul who desperately needs another’s help in finding the right path_ , it says.

Genji swallows. His tears have dried on his cheeks - he never wiped them off, but let the salty wind from the sea carry them away instead. As his eyes wander back towards the horizon, he realises there is something he can do: he can ask Hanzo directly.

 

* * *

 

This time, the machines aren’t beeping when the anesthesia wears off. Hanzo stirs, a wave of mild nausea crashing in; he reaches out, eyes barely open, towards a bottle of water much too far away for him to grasp. A hand presses against his half-way through the motion, its metallic joints shining against the lights and the back of its palm plated with white armor. It’s Genji’s; Hanzo turns his gaze towards him and lets out a small breath as the younger brother takes the bottle instead and pours him a glass out of it.

”I wouldn’t do anything quite as complicated as pouring water yet, brother,” Genji says in a warm tone, ”That’s what I’m here for.”

He leans closer and helps Hanzo up from the bed. His arm, cool and smooth against Hanzo’s shirt, guides him against the wall before pulling away.

”Thank you,” Hanzo says; his own voice sounds distant and delayed, but as Genji gives him a small nod, he knows that it worked well enough to deliver the message.

Drinking seems to drive away some of the anesthesia’s lingering effects. Hanzo leans his head back and closes his eyes, the glass of water firmly in his grip, and listens to his heart beating for a while. His fingers trace the thin blanket over his lap until he peers out again, this time feeling more stable and not quite as out of it anymore, and he sees his brother on the chair with one leg bent underneath his body, his eyes clear as he examines Hanzo on the bed.

”Where’s...?”

”Angela?”

Hanzo nods.

”I asked her to leave,” Genji says with a casual shrug - it doesn’t look like his shoulder hurts anymore. ”I wanted to catch you alone.”

Squinting, Hanzo tilts his head; Genji gives him half a smile and tilts his own in return.

”If you’re here to hear my answer, I don’t have one for you yet,” Hanzo tells him.

”No,” Genji replies, his voice still bearing the same kindness, ”That’s not quite what I wanted to talk about. We haven’t really talked about this, so I just - wanted to ask how you’re doing.”

Hanzo lets out a small grunt.  
”Why does everyone suddenly want to know how I’m doing?” he asks, ”I don’t have a good answer to that question either, and it doesn’t get better with repetition.

Now, Genji laughs.  
”Fine. I’ll be more specific,” he chuckles, pulling up his other leg too so that he’s sitting in a loose lotus position on the chair, ”You’re fresh out of surgery. Congratulations, by the way, it went well. Any complaints so far?”

”No,” Hanzo replies hesitantly. There’s a catch hidden in there somewhere, but he can’t quite make out what it is yet. ”I feel fine."

Genji nods.  
”Good to hear.”

Hanzo nods back at him, turning his eyes away.  
”What of it?” he asks.

”You’ve been quiet lately,” Genji says, and although his tone is still conversational, Hanzo thinks this is what he really wanted to talk about.

”I’ve had a lot to think about.”

”Mind sharing it with me, brother?”

Their eyes meet again. Hanzo frowns; he’s not used to this. All their lives, they’ve never had much of a heart-to-heart - it seems strange for Genji to ask him, and even stranger to try and think of an answer. What could he possibly say? All his thoughts are still fragmented and unfinished: not one of them is ready to be spoken out loud. Genji huffs, throwing his head to the side with a small smile on his scarred features.

”I know, I know. This is weird, isn’t it?”

Hanzo has to agree.

”What is it - exactly that you want of me?” he asks carefully.

”I just wanted to know how you’re feeling about all of this. The surgery and the implants, wearing the prostheses – it's not a small thing to go through. I was serious when I said that you can talk to me about all of this, but I suppose we have never been big on sharing and caring,” Genji explains.

Hanzo swallows. He looks down at his lap for a moment before speaking.  
”It feels strange talking to you at all,” he admits, ”I’ve barely accepted that you’re still alive, and when it comes to my condition, I can hardly even think about it. I don’t know what I could possibly say to you, Genji. I don’t even know what to tell myself.”

”I guess I should cut you some slack,” Genji sighs, ”I let you think you’d murdered me for a whole decade - coming back from that is probably harder than I give you credit for.”

Hanzo nods again, and afterwards, a long silence falls over them. He drinks the rest of his water and Genji takes back his glass, placing it upon the tray on the other bed, but neither of them seems to find the next words easily. Then, finally, Hanzo clears his throat.

”You’ve been through this,” he repeats.

”Mm.”

Their eyes meet, but only briefly as discomfort forces Hanzo’s head back down again.

”I would ask a favour of you,” he says carefully, ”since you have offered your help.

”Anything.”

”I’ve been trapped in this bed for a week,” Hanzo says, ”and there are few things I want more than a good shower.”

”Ah,” Genji chuckles, ”I see. Right now?”

”As soon as possible.”

”You promise me not to get your bandages wet?”

”I don’t want to touch these - things,” Hanzo grunts, ”or that anything else touches them. I’ll manage.”

Genji looks like he’s about to argue, but he shuts his mouth again and simply nods instead.  
”Well,” he says, his feet falling back onto the floor, ”Let’s get going, then.”

The moment he moves his knee onto Hanzo’s bed, Hanzo realises the mistake he’s made. His whole body tenses, but Genji either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care: he brings his arms around Hanzo’s body and pulls him close, all the way until their chests press against each other, and he holds him firmly, steadily, his head over Hanzo’s shoulder.

”I’ll hold you up, all you’ve got to do is just follow along.”

Hanzo’s done this before, of course, but there’s nothing personal about the way Angela helps him into the wheelchair. With Genji, everything’s different. He can’t breathe, it seems; all he can think of is the strangeness of the other’s body against his own, and his mind is overloading with all the information it reads from Genji at once. Perhaps he’s learned to recognise his brother’s voice by now, and started to see the other’s spirit through his eyes, but he’s never had proper contact to his new body before. The first impact feels completely foreign, hard and unyielding, but unlike Hanzo expected, the only cold parts of Genji's body are the ones covered by armor. The rest of Genji... feels alive. The undersides of his arms, his thighs and his sides, they all feel softer than the plating protecting his body, and as Hanzo leans into him, he feels the warmth reflecting against him from these parts. His own arm wraps tensely around Genji’s back as he drops himself from the bed into the wheelchair, and then the touch is gone - their bodies separate again, but the stunned feeling following the unexpected intimacy lingers.

”Did better than I would have,” Genji tells him in a casual tone, ”Angela tried her best with me but I still somehow managed to fall on the floor more than once. I guess - I didn’t really have good grip with my new arm, so you’ve got it easier, but still, nice job.”

”This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten out of the bed,” Hanzo mutters.  
He adjusts his body into the seat and tries to pretend he’s in control. Genji presses his hand against the backside of the chair and pushes it onwards; it hovers a few inches off the floor and the nudge causes it to move forwards right away.

”I spent quite a long time in bed,” Genji continues, ”but I still sucked at getting out, every time. Of course, I didn’t have to get out much, so I didn’t get the practice either. I guess for the first month I only had to be moved once or maybe twice, it’s been a long time since.”

They move towards the wide door at the back of the room. When they’re close enough, it lets out a soft hiss and opens automatically: there’s a small locker room behind it, then a second door that Hanzo assumes leads into the showers. His hair stands on end, but he’s not really sure why - Genji’s words started it, but it doesn’t seem to go away now that they’re quiet again. Another flash of nervous energy moves through Hanzo when the wheelchair stops and Genji moves lightly around it to face him.

”You know what to do,” he says, and Hanzo tries his best to avoid his gaze as he nods and brings his fingers around the hem of his shirt.

The room is surprisingly cool against his bare skin. He folds the shirt and drops it on the bench running alongside the lockers lining the walls, these ones much less secure than the ones in the room behind them, only meant for storing civilian clothes and phones or jewelry taken off for the duration of a quick shower. Then, he realises that it’s about everything he can do on his own. Feeling ridiculous, he draws a short breath and swallows, fingers crawling along the waistband of his underwear before he pulls them back again and rests his hand over his stomach instead.

”Genji,” he growls, ”Could you...”

”Yep.”

Genji leans down and pulls Hanzo’s arm over his shoulder. He seems to hold him up with relative ease - there’s no shaking, no adjusting, and he holds steady as Hanzo leans back into him, uncomfortably aware of his proximity, and tugs down the waistband from both sides until it rests over his thighs instead. With a quiet breath, Genji lets him back down and turns away his gaze; he makes a big number of it, but Hanzo notices him glance back with a grin on his face when he slides off the boxer-briefs and tucks them underneath the shirt on the bench.

”You know,” Genji says, his hand briefly landing over Hanzo’s shoulder as he spins back behind him and pushes the wheelchair towards the showers, ”I wouldn’t worry too much about the leg thing. Looks like you’ve got other things to offer.”

Hanzo’s swallow gets caught in his throat: for a good long second, he can neither breath nor get the saliva down. Then, in a quite calm manner, he rests his arms over his lap and draws the longest and quietest inhale of his life. Genji lets out a laugh.

”Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

With that, Genji parts from him again. He finds a small stool and kicks it towards the showers, then adjusts it with his foot until it’s directly underneath a showerhead.

”One more time,” he breathes out and gets back to Hanzo to help him under the shower.

 

* * *

 

 

  
It takes Genji less than ten minutes to run back and forth between the buildings to get his clothes. Once there, he drops his bag onto the bed and peers at Hanzo, squinting.

”Are you ever going to talk to me again, brother?” he asks in a half-frustrated, half-amused tone.

Hanzo pulls his towel more firmly around his body, his eyes stubbornly staring at the corridor leading out of the crew quarters. He hasn’t said a word since the shower, and it doesn't seem like he's about to start again now.

Genji sighs; he turns towards the bag and bends down to open it. He spots Hanzo’s eyes glancing towards the inside, but then draw back just as quickly; the older brother lets out a huff through his nose, his chin pointing slightly upwards with distaste.

”I can take this back to my room,” Genji tells him, his voice now clearly annoyed, ”and tell Angela you’d like to continue wearing the same set of clothes for the next foreseeable future until you’re well enough to walk into a store, practically naked, to buy new ones. Or you can get over yourself and see what I’ve got instead.”

He watches his brother struggling for a moment: Hanzo’s lips press into a thin line, his nostrils flare and his jaw tightens, but then he slowly seems to deflate, and eventually, he turns his gaze towards Genji. It’s sharp and judgemental, but Genji replies to it with a wide smile.

”Okay,” Genji says, climbing onto the bed next to his luggage, ”Let’s get this thing over with. I’ve got some old clothes that should fit you - or at least they will if you cut the sake.”

”Will you ever learn to shut up, Genji?” Hanzo asks, his voice dripping with frustration, ”You’re a grown man, and yet you still can’t control yourself, not one bit more than you did when you were 16.”

”Sore subject, huh,” Genji comments dryly, but inside, he can’t help but feel relieved that at least Hanzo’s broken his silence.  
  
He examines his brother for a moment, bypassing with quite some effort the wounded look that Hanzo's aiming at him, before dropping his gaze back to the bag.  
”Mm. I think you’ll like this better than the army underwear combo,” he says then.

Hanzo’s eyes stray from his and down until he's watching his hands dig through the clothes to find what he’s looking for. Finally, he brings up his decorative hakama and lays it on the bed between them.

”Should just about fit around your gut,” Genji dares to push one more time, but beyond giving him a disappointed look, Hanzo doesn’t pay it much attention.

Instead, he lifts his hand and traces his fingertips over the fabric.

”What happened to my clothes?” he asks, decisively ignoring Genji’s words.

”Well, blood, mostly,” Genji grimaces, ”except for the hakama, which, you know.”

Hanzo nods slowly. He drops his gaze back to the hakama on the bed, and after looking at it for a moment, he starts undoing the folds.

”I thought you’d feel more comfortable in something - more familiar,” Genji says, getting another nod from his brother.

”Do you have a keikogi?” the older brother asks, his eyes back on Genji.

”Not here. I left some of my things back in Nepal - things I did not think I'd need here.”

”Nepal?” Hanzo repeats.

Genji nods.  
”I spent some years with the Shambali,” he explains, ”On my travels, I met an omnic monk called Zenyatta, and I followed him there. I stayed with him until - well, recently.”

Hanzo’s expression hardens. His palm presses against the hakama and sinks into it, the silky fabric bending like liquid around the weight.

”You were with the Shambali?”

”Where else, brother? Look at me,” Genji chuckles, spreading his arms as if to reveal his cyborg form from behind, ”Can you think of a better place for someone like me?”

A soft huff escapes Hanzo, and he shakes his head.  
”I suppose - it doesn’t matter,” he says then, ”if I wear this until something can be done about my clothes.”

Genji nods.  
”There’s a laundry place in town,” he says, ”I’m not sure what they can do, if anything, to save your gear but I’ll see if I can find out.”

”Thank you.”

”To be honest,” Genji says with a grin, ”It’s been painful looking at you in a simple t-shirt. I don't think I've seen you in one since you were a child. How’s it feel, Hanzo, being born in the wrong century?”

Hanzo scoffs.  
”I am a Shimada,” he reminds Genji, ”and so were you once. We honour our traditions.”

”I think one could argue that I am more a Shimada than you are, brother,” Genji says, squinting, ”Considering that you are the one the clan branded as a traitor. I died a Shimada once; you walked away.”

Hanzo cocks his brow, then leans back and chuckles.  
”Fair enough.”

”Well - I suppose I’ll leave you to it. Getting dressed should be easier than getting undressed, after all. Think you can manage?”

”I’ll manage,” Hanzo tells him, ”Genji - I... owe you, both for your help and your kindness. I do not - I have not earned it.”

”Sure you do,” Genji says, ”and I’ll hold you to it later. But as long as you need my help, I will try to provide it; I am your brother, after all.”

Hanzo nods. Then, quietly, he sheds the towel off his shoulders, letting it collapse over his lap instead. He gives Genji a meaningful look and Genji nods, closes his bag and drags it off the bed.

”Hanzo,” he says once standing, ”I’m glad that you are here.”

A flash of surprise crosses Hanzo’s features, as if Genji hadn’t made this clear yet. Genji’s smile is crooked as he nods absently, taking a couple steps backwards.

”It will not change, even if you choose to part our ways. I want you to know that - and I want you to remember it if you leave. This time, I do not wish for us to part as enemies.”

”You are not my enemy,” Hanzo says; his fist wounds up around the towel and he presses it against his belly, ”and you have never been my enemy.”

”Really?”

Hanzo nods.  
”I have never thought of you as anything but my blood and my ally, Genji. Even when I did what I... it wasn’t a question of your loyalty, but rather, it was about mine.”

”You chose the clan.”

Again, this time more hesitantly, Hanzo nods.  
”I thought I was making the right choice.”

”Either way - we can't change our past, but we can learn from it. It is the only way we can grow. It has a been a long time, Hanzo, but to stand here talking to you again, I’d do it all over again.”

”What would it mean to you - should I decline your offer?”

A sting of pain makes itself known somewhere near Genji’s heart, and his stomach twists as if echoing it. He lets out a sigh.  
”It would mean losing something that has always been a part of me,” he replies, ”A part of who I am. But if it’s the choice you want to make, I have to accept it; if you think that we are past mending, then there is nothing I can do. At least I’ll know that we tried.”

Then, he smiles again.  
”I’ll let you get dressed now,” he sighs and turns to leave, ”See you later, brother.”


	9. Step into the dojo

* * *

 

Gibraltar is buzzling. Despite the clouds gathering above them, promising more rain to come, the late afternoon is warm enough to get most people back in their summer clothes. Angela is no exception: she plays the part of a tourist really well as she walks beside Genji towards the laundromat, much unlike the man himself, whose form still attracts some attention despite the multitudes of omnics mixing with the crowd.

”I’m sure we won’t get any looks at all,” Angela says, slowing down to smell a batch of sunflowers sold outside a small boutique.

Genji laughs.  
”No,” he replies wearily, ”I’m sure they’re perfectly used to cleaning obscene amounts of blood from sensitive high-end materials.”

”There’s absolutely no need to contact the authorities.”

”Of course not.”

Angela glances at Genji, the corner of her mouth climbing up.  
”Is this really that important?” she asks.

Genji shrugs.  
”He has to wear clothes, Angela.”

”A t-shirt is usually considered a part of that category.”

”Not for Hanzo.”

”I think he should get used to it.”

”I think he’s experiencing enough stress already without us tearing his identity apart, too.”

”There’s no good reason for him to dress like he’s going to war - especially a war fought under a shogunate five centuries ago.”

”We have to get his clothes cleaned eventually,” Genji points out, ”Might as well do it now.”

”What, exactly, is the issue with wearing a t-shirt?”

”You’re asking my brother to wear American clothes,” Genji sighs, ”made in America.”

”Oh, so this is political.”

”You have no idea.”

They walk on for a moment before Genji continues.

”Our family,” he starts over as they cross a street and pass another English pub looking exactly like the three they’ve already left behind, ”honoured our roots to the point of absurdity. I don’t know if you noticed, but we lived in a castle, Angela. My father was regarded as the highest authority after the Emperor in a world where monarchy hasn’t had a foothold in a century. My primary weapon is a katana, Hanzo’s is a bow; I have never fired a gun in my life, and I doubt Hanzo has, either, although I cannot say for sure now. The moment my brother was old enough to be regarded as an extension of the power in our family, a representative - and I can tell you that happened around the same time he learned to walk - he’s worn nothing but clothes that reflect the status and history of our family, the traditions of which were laid down, you guessed it, during the shogunates. This is the kind of an environment that spawned my brother, Angela; his clothes matter to him.”

The next silence goes on for what seems like forever. Then, suddenly, Angela takes a hold of Genji’s arm and stops him in the middle of the street.

”I didn’t realise that,” she says, and Genji shrugs.

”I don’t blame you. You’re a Swiss doctor. I'm a yakuza. We don’t have much in common.”

”You’ve never - had these issues,” Angela reflects, and slowly, they start walking again, ”You’ve always been...”

”Open-minded? Well, my brother is not. Hanzo is not a bad person, but he’s... a product of his environment,” Genji chuckles, ”We lived in a different world, Angela. A world where my curiosity and even my sense of fashion was viewed as a danger to our way of life, and Hanzo’s strict adherence to tradition that has technically been dead for centuries was not only the norm but a condition to the survival of our entire bloodline. He takes it seriously. It’s the only identity he has.”

He lifts the bag hanging over his shoulder and smiles at Angela.

”That’s why,” he continues, ”this matters.”

They stop in front of the laundromat and look at each other.

”At least you left your blades home,” Angela sighs.

”Not because I wanted to, mind you,” Genji grins, ”but you’re right – they really might have had us arrested if I’d brought my sword with me.”

”Taking one for the team.”

Genji strokes his palm over the armour on his arm hiding beneath it his shurikens, and Angela rolls her eyes.

”Let’s do this, shall we?” she says, pushing open the door.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo runs his fingers through his hair, then fists his hand around it and pulls it up along the back of his head. He lets out a small sound of satisfaction as he slips the tie around it and tightens it until it holds well; the feeling of cool air touching the back of his neck and the tips of his ears again makes him feel less sickly. Closing his eyes, he tugs his finger past his hairline and frees one strand from amongst the rest. It falls over his face, touches the side of his nose and he blows it off, a small smile climbing onto his features.

Better.

Genji sits down on his bed and eyes him with a small smile; it stretches the scarring over his mouth, but Hanzo’s getting oddly used to the way he looks now, even the manner in which the metal over his jaw connects to his skin, and how that skin connects to the permanent structure of his fixed throat. It doesn’t make him uncomfortable anymore, not every time he looks at it. Instead, he sees Genji’s expressions as they are - as gestures, communication, signs of what’s going on inside him.

He runs his hand along the front of his clothes and looks down: with the hakama tied up around his knees, he can’t really even see the stumps or the three small metal sensors now embedded into his knees on both sides.

”Feeling more like yourself yet, brother?” Genji asks, and Hanzo nods.

”I’m ready,” he says then, turning his gaze towards the prostheses on Ziegler’s table.

Ziegler lifts her gaze: she looks him over, but her expression doesn’t change even as she nods and stands up. She grabs the prostheses and brings them to the bed.

”I’m going to warn you - the few first times the nerves communicate, you might feel some pain,” she says. ”It’s usually a shock to your system to have something artificial connecting into it and it might try to send off a few warning signals before adjusting.”

Hanzo cocks his head.  
”I am used to pain,” he tells her, his voice indifferent, and she nods.

”You know how to put them on,” she says and hands him the first one.

Genji makes a small sound beside them as Ziegler settles onto the chair; he looks at her and they smile at each other in a way that makes Hanzo feel quite ousted from the company. Sighing, he adjusts his leg against the prosthetic and slides it in: it locks in place, but this time, he barely has the chance to acknowledge the discomfort of feeling it tighten around his limb. Instead, he’s struck with an intense sensation like pins and needles but a hundred times worse - a small sound escapes him, and he finds his hand clutching just above his knee as if trying to stop the feeling. His leg tenses, a flash of stabbing pain entering through the point where it previously seemed to end, and he winces, his head turning ever so slightly to the side in response to the feeling. He barely realises that Genji’s hand has landed over his, or that his brother is watching him with bare concern, before the pain starts waning and he can breathe again. When Genji sees him looking back, a small smile crosses his lips and he nods, his hand withdrawing again.

”It feels like shit,” the younger brother mutters under his breath in Japanese, excluding Ziegler from the conversation, ”The second one is even worse.”

Hanzo nods, his body trembling slightly. Then, his attention is drawn elsewhere; Ziegler’s looking at the same thing. A quiet breath escapes Hanzo - he reaches his hand out and runs it along the shin of the prosthetic leg, and the sensation that rushes through him makes him gasp. He can definitely feel it, but it doesn’t feel anywhere near like it would feel if he was touching his own leg. It’s an electric sensation that communicates vaguely the spot that he’s touching, but his brain seems to reject the source of the sensation as belonging to his body: for one horrible moment, he wants nothing more than to pull the thing off him to make the feeling go away. He shudders and closes his eyes as he begins to sense the bed connecting with the prosthesis, too; the material of the sheet rubs against the sensory-ridden surface and every single movement, even as small as his pulse echoing through the limb, feels like someone’s rubbing sandpaper against his bare flesh.

”It goes away, Hanzo,” Genji tells him, still keeping the conversation only between the two of them.  
Hanzo’s hand, the one that’s been gripping the sheets without him noticing, moves vaguely towards Genji’s direction. Without hesitation, Genji slides his fingers between Hanzo’s; his hand is a mixture of soft matte padding and hard metal, and its hold is firm yet gentle.  
”Give it a chance.”

”Try moving it,” Ziegler’s voice calls out, and Hanzo forces his eyes open even though his mind is telling him that seeing might somehow make him feel worse.

He shudders, his hand tightening around his knee again, feeling the soft, _natural_ response to the pressure he’s applying against his body, but then he pushes himself: a quiet groan escapes him as yet another near-excruciating stabbing pain rushes through his leg. He lets it pass, his body now sweaty and shaking visibly, before trying again.

This time, he can see the prosthetic bending. It does so ever so slightly, the steel-guarded cloven hoof at the front poking up as he tells his brain to move his toes. He can feel them individually, and this time, he’s not sure if it’s just in his mind. His voice barely working, he addresses Ziegler without looking at her - it feels impossible to stop staring at the prosthesis now that he's first taken a look at it.

”Are there... toes in this thing?” he asks.

”Technically, yes - the front of the prosthetic foot consists of five separate parts that correspond with your brain’s idea of what your foot should be like. This makes controlling it feel more natural.”

Genji stretches out his leg along the empty side of Hanzo’s bed. First Hanzo barely glances at it, but then, when his mind seems to accept that looking away from the prosthesis won’t make his discomfort worse any more than looking at it before did, he gives himself the permission to turn his gaze back. He’s never really examined Genji’s build before - even setting aside his guilt and the aversion he’s felt towards the changes his brother has gone through, it’s still Genji’s body, and at least _one_ of them has been taught not to stare.

”My first model was different,” Genji says, making a wave-like motion with the tip of his foot, ”It had proper toes built into it individually. Eventually it turned out that it wasn’t such a good idea; it was too easy to hurt them, even to break them. We moved to a safer solution eventually. The best part is that you can’t stub a toe if you don’t have one.”

He pulls his leg back and hugs his knees with his free hand. Suddenly, Hanzo’s quite aware of the fact that they’re holding hands - awkwardly, he separates his from Genji’s, who lets him retreat at will and moves his other arm around his knees as well.

”Can you bend your ankle?” Ziegler asks, and Hanzo tilts his foot upwards, every single hair on his body standing on end. It seems to satisfy the doctor, however, and once he relaxes the foot again, he’s nearly sure that it doesn’t feel quite so terrible anymore. At least, he doesn’t register the texture of the sheets as clearly, and the sandpapery feeling has toned down; the prosthesis still tingles, but even that seems to be fading somewhat.

”Does moving it - make it better?” he asks.

”Definitely,” Genji says, and on her chair, Ziegler nods.

”The more stress you apply to the new nerve connections, the more your brain will adapt and the sooner it will learn to treat the signals as non-threatening, which eventually desensitizes you to them,” she explains.

Swallowing, Hanzo straightens his ankle, then pulls his foot up again. Carefully, he begins drawing his leg up and applying weight onto the ankle; the prosthesis bends smoothly below his knee, but the weight over the sole makes him feel as if his leg is being crushed, so he releases the pressure and straightens himself over the bed again.

”It feels awful,” he admits, and Genji lets out a delighted chuckle.

”Of course it’s awful,” the younger brother says before Ziegler can get a word out, ”Wait until you get to try walking. You’ll want to just tear the things right off your body and hurl them into the ocean.”

Ziegler looks offended.  
”Is that really how you feel?” she asks, her eyes sharp on Genji.

”It’s definitely how I felt the first few months,” Genji scoffs, ”If you hadn’t made sure that every new part of me was inseparable from my spine, I would have hacked them off long before I got used to them.”

”But you did get used to them,” Ziegler reminds him, still giving him a betrayed look.

”Eventually,” Genji says; he leans back and crosses his legs underneath him, ”Hanzo; the other one.”

Hanzo nods. Not one part of him wants to go through the same thing again, but he ignores the weakness in him and picks up the second prosthesis. His hands shake with premonition as he pushes his other leg inside it, bracing for what comes next: his both hands tighten around the sheets and a low growl escapes him when the pain comes again, this time seeming to bounce between both of his legs, causing a hellish stabbing sensation even in his inner thighs and his crotch like broken glass was being injected directly into his bloodstream. He barely waits for the pain to settle before rolling his new ankle and shaking the leg as if trying to get the pain to diminish. The prosthesis holds so well around his knee that there’s no distinguishable pain stemming from the amputations themselves, but Ziegler still gives him a warning look.

”When,” Hanzo breathes out, his jaw tense as the intense prickling begins all over again, ”can I start walking?”

”Not today,” Ziegler tells him firmly, ”We’ll see about it in another week.”

Hanzo grimaces, but his eyes catch Genji’s, who shakes his head almost unnoticeably with a conspiratory look on his face. It stills Hanzo, and through the next wave of pain, he peers at his brother intensely, trying to read his mind. A hint of a grin crosses Genji’s lips before he turns towards Ziegler.

”How long are you going to torture him?” he asks.

Ziegler shrugs.  
”As long as he wants to be tortured,” she says simply, ”wearing them won’t cause any damage.”

Slowly, Hanzo falls back onto his bed. He can’t bring himself to care about being in the presence of two others; all he cares about is getting air in his lungs, over and over again, as his body trembles and his legs twitch in rhythm with the jolts of agony in his nerves. His ponytail digs into the back of his head and he pushes his hand underneath it, palm wet with cold sweat, and adjusts it; his eyes stare blankly at the ridged ceiling as his exhales leave him as heavy and short gasps, followed by dragging, choked inhales. It goes on for another ten minutes, during which Ziegler stands up and walks back to her table, pouring herself a cup of coffee from her thermos.

”Well,” she says when she walks back, standing at the end of Hanzo’s bed and directly behind Genji, ”the good news is that the sensors are definitely working, so when it comes to the strictly medical side of things - we’re just about done.”

Hanzo nods. He wets his lips with a short drag of his tongue and, with seemingly great effort, pushes himself back into a sitting position. Carefully, he moves his legs underneath him, mirroring Genji’s pose; he looks at him as he does it, and if he’s not completely mistaken, Genji nods at him with approval. Once again, his legs feel as if the smallest amount of weight he’s leaning onto them is all but flattening them, but he suffers through the constricting sensation until it, too, starts fading into the background. As he struggles to endure through it, Genji reaches his hand across the space between them and takes a hold of his shoulder, leaning him a little backwards and off the prostheses. Hanzo rests his weight on Genji, his heart quieting down in his chest as the discomfort eases. He offers a timid flash of a smile for him, and Genji reflects it back at him, relaxing his arm and letting Hanzo’s weight back over his legs.

”Better?”

”Getting there,” Hanzo breathes out, his body tensing up again when the sensation in his legs intensifies once more. Then he laughs. ”Remember, Genji, that one time when I sprained my ankle during practice?”

Genji huffs softly.  
”You kept going for an hour at least. You didn’t complain one word.”

”Father was there,” Hanzo chuckles, ”I couldn’t show weakness in front of him.”

”You also couldn’t walk for ages after it.”

Ziegler’s moved back to her desk, and it’s only when Hanzo looks at her that he realises they’ve yet again barred her from the conversation. She doesn’t seem to mind; she’s got a magazine in front of her and her cup on her lap, and soon enough, Hanzo looks back at Genji.

”This feels like that,” he says breathlessly, ”Only in both legs, and all the way up to my knees.”

”You’ll walk again,” Genji promises him, a light playing in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Through silence, a vision emerges.

There are people gathered around Hanzo. He’s standing at a crossroads between a quiet, dark street and a small alley that smells vaguely of old piss and dirt. In the alley, covered by the shadows of the buildings surrounding it, four other people stand. They’re all armed: he can see guns on their belts or underneath their jackets, and one knife tucked inside a man’s boot. He knows that at least two of them carry electroshock weapons, and that this meeting is no longer a meeting at all; it’s a feast for crows, and he’s the main course. The weight of his bow rests over his shoulders, its string pressing reassuringly against his chest, but he feels exposed despite it: it can’t do anything to help him now.

He shouldn’t have come here. He should have been more careful.

There’s a stream of traffic running across the moon. It flows steadily past, the aerial route’s noise an ever-present background to the silence between Hanzo and the Talon agents; the river of light courses in and out between the tall buildings climbing high up into the midnight sky. There’s no easily accessible rooftop to reach for, not that he could get there before being shot anyway should he try to run. The only way out is talking, but these people don’t look like they’ve come there to talk.

Shit, he thinks; one agent he could handle, could disarm and kill with his bare hands. That’s why he’s down here now - he was promised a meeting, not a fight. Three more, without the advantage of surprise, and he’s got very little left.

 _Your enemies are wolves, Hanzo,_ Sojiro’s voice tells him, _never be so stupid as to face the full pack. They will circle you and surround you from all sides, and then, they will tear out your throat. Outsmart the wolves. Take them down one by one before the others can hear their dead howling._

”You’ve broken the conditions of our meeting,” Hanzo states calmly over the ghost whispering inside his head.

The man at the front laughs hollowly behind his mask.  
”There is no need to fear,” he tells him, ”You’re no use to us dead.”

”I am not afraid,” Hanzo replies coldly, ”You’ve broken your word, and I have nothing further to discuss with you.”

”Hanzo,” the man says, dragging the syllables of his name in an unpleasant manner, ”Think about it. Think about what we can offer you.”

”I have thought of it, and I am not interested.”

”Hanamura used to be your home. You had an empire - so much power was yours, _is_ yours, should you just say the word. We can give you it all. We can give you _more_.”

”You can give me nothing that I wish for,” Hanzo states, moving one foot behind him to imply backing out of the conversation, ”My empire is gone - the Shimada clan is gone. I will not enter a contract with the likes of you for something that I’ve already left behind.”

”Such a pity,” a female voice that he hasn’t heard before utters so close to his ear that he feels his heart stop for a beat, ”I heard that you were a man, but it seems that you are just another insect after all.”

He turns in time to see her land soundlessly on the ground behind him, her grappling hook snapping back into the contraption around her wrist. She’s smiling, but the expression merely highlights how inhuman she looks - like a corpse reawakened. The barrel of her gun pokes gently against Hanzo’s stomach, freezing him in place.

 

* * *

 

The lights flicker on. For a second, Hanzo thinks it’s the flash of a gun firing, and he’s up in his bed with his hand already firmly fisted around the upper limb of his bow, ready to pull it up and return fire, before he realises what really happened. When he sees Genji standing at the door above the stairway, he relaxes: a relieved exhale escapes him and he loosens his grip around his weapon, letting it fall back against the bed.

”Sorry to startle you, brother,” Genji says with a hint of amusement in his tone, ”I would have knocked but it defeats the purpose of sneaking in.”

”And why _are_ you sneaking in? What time is it?” Hanzo asks him suspiciously.

He watches Genji jump down the stairs and land without a sound on the floor beneath them. In a couple swift movements, he’s perched on Hanzo’s bed like a little monkey.

”Just about past the time everybody’s already asleep,” Genji tells him: his face is covered, but the voice coming from underneath is playful. ”It is my turn to keep watch tonight, and I was wondering - are you in for a small adventure?”

”I’m hardly in any condition for an adventure,” Hanzo says dryly, his gaze moving along the two blades strapped to his brother’s back.

Genji scoffs, but doesn’t answer. Instead, he slides off the bed and hands Hanzo his clothes.

”Get dressed. All the way, Hanzo - you’ll need your legs for this.”

For a while, Hanzo peers at the visor covering his brother’s eyes. A strange longing rests heavy in his chest: he remembers a thousand nights like this one, nights that he’ll never forget but which were much too painful for him to recall until now. Genji’s never been very good at sleeping. Again and again, he would slip into Hanzo’s room and drag him out in the dead of the night, and together, they’d climb the castle or the buildings surrounding their home to watch the night lights of the city pulsing like a living organ around them. They never had to fear anything then: the world seemed to rest at their feet, and the future was certain and set out for them to grasp, or at least it had been for Hanzo: if Genji had already doubted his place within the clan and the lifestyle he’d been born into, he’d never spoken of it then. He’d never implied anything of the sort while they’d sat on the rooftops and ledges dangling their feet down above one deadly fall or another, for once speaking and laughing freely with one another under the cover of the night, united by the intoxication brought upon them by the vastness of freedom and opportunity and the young life flowing strongly within their veins. By the time it all began Hanzo was already aware of the growing distance between them, but while they’d ruled the sleeping city together, he’d felt as if they were one.

He doesn’t know what Genji has planned. He can’t walk, he can barely move himself from the bed to the wheelchair with help, but no matter what it is, the longing pushes him to comply. Something in Genji seems to shift when he nods without asking questions and pulls off the shirt he’s wearing to bed, but before Hanzo can make out what it was, he’s already turned away.

”Tell me when you’re done,” Genji chuckles with his back now towards Hanzo’s bed, ”or I’ll make another badly timed comment about your body and you’ll change your mind about this. It seems that I cannot help it.”

”How many more badly timed comments can you possibly make about me?” Hanzo asks wearily.

”Plenty, it seems. I have not yet mentioned the grey in your hair. Our father did not go grey until very late - I wonder if it’s our mother you get it from.”

Hanzo’s movements slow for a moment at the mention of her, the sash resting in his hands light and soft to touch.

”How much do you think about them?” he asks as he finally fastens it around his waist.

”Not as much as I used to,” Genji admits, ”but I remember them and honour them as often as I can.”

Hanzo nods although Genji can’t see it. A silence falls over them, only ending when he picks up the first prosthetic leg off the floor beside his bed.

”You can look,” he tells Genji, and the other man spins around and sits down on the bed next to Hanzo’s.

”Nervous?” the cyborg asks as Hanzo aligns the prosthetic’s socket with his limb.

He shakes his head.  
”The pain won’t kill me.”

”No, but it’s still pain.”

Hanzo lets out an unconvinced sound as he pulls the prosthesis on. It attaches to his limb as securely as always, and the nerve connections burst into life with a jolt and a shudder, but this time, the pain is minimal. He stills to expect more, but nothing comes, so he picks up the other one without delay and connects it with his body while Genji watches.

”That much better, huh.”

The older brother nods uncertainly.  
”I expected it to be worse,” he says, but placing any weight upon the legs is still unbearably uncomfortable; he finds it out the hard way as he bends them to bring them closer to his body.

To distract himself from the sensation, he turns to Genji.

”What are you planning?” he asks him, voice hesitant.  
There isn’t much he can do - or anything at all, if the way he feels about just moving his legs now is any indication of it.

”I thought we’d go watch the sun rise,” Genji says with a shrug, ”At the rate you’re progressing, we might get there just in time.”

”You’re expecting me to walk.”

”Yes - that’s the idea.”

”How,” Hanzo sighs, ”exactly?”

”By putting one foot on the floor, then the other, and then pulling yourself up from the bed. Or have you forgotten already?”

The stare that Hanzo aims at him is meant to be sharp, but he doesn’t quite find himself as frustrated as he expected to be.

”I can support you,” Genji says then, ”you just need to ask.”

The tingling and the overpowering sensation of weakness lifts slowly from Hanzo’s feet. He looks at them - stares at them, trying to will them into working better, into becoming at least partially functional - and then, grunting, pulls them up and lands them on the floor. The soles hit the ground lightly, but the tremor the impact sends through his ankles and shins feels as if he’s standing on an earthquake, and his stomach drops and a small gasp escapes him, one foot lifting in shock off the ground. Blinking, he lands it back; he was promised the oversensitivity would wear off if he just keeps trying.

”Help me stand,” he breathes out, and Genji nods, moving beside him.  
Hanzo brings his arm around his brother’s plated shoulders and grabs a hold, and Genji lifts him up: he expects to land weight on his feet, but all he does is collapse. A small breath hits the amplifier in Genji’s mask, making the exhale audible. His arm moves under Hanzo’s and his balance shifts to rest in his leg to keep them both standing despite the dead weight over him, and Hanzo tries to tell his legs to stand, tries to get a grip of the ground with them, but all he manages is to just shift one of them uselessly against the floor. His ankles won’t hold, and the sensation of immense pressure pushing up against the soles of his feet threatens to drive him insane. Pain prickles at his knees again, and his legs are shaking: he holds onto Genji with all the strength he’s got in his arms to stay upright, but it’s a losing battle.

Finally, Genji lowers him back on the bed and stretches out his back. The metallic spine in his upper back reflects the light from the room.

”A good try,” he says, and his voice sounds sincere, ”Now, let’s do it again.”

”It’s impossible,” Hanzo tells him, but lets him bend down again.  
He brings his arm over Genji's shoulders and takes a deep breath.

”No, brother - it is not impossible. I am standing,” Genji replies quietly.

Hanzo has no argument against it. Surely, Genji’s standing; he seems to have no issue doing so. He grits his teeth together and closes his eyes, pressing the bottom of his foot against the ground, and he pushes hard against it, digs his knee as deep into the prosthesis as he can, and manages to get enough support from the foot to lift himself up with Genji. That support fails immediately once he’s standing, and the other foot refuses to so much as to try to hold his weight, and once more, he’s clinging to his brother, the shame of failure burning hard inside him.

”They’re not working,” he gasps, but Genji shakes his head, still lifting him.

”They are working,” he tells Hanzo, ”You can control them. Now you just have to learn to use them. You’ve been a baby once, Hanzo, and I know that you didn’t give up when you couldn’t stand up straight the first time you tried. As a man, you should have more patience than that. More perseverance.”

They fall back on the bed. There’s a hint of strain in the breath that Genji lets out as his body relaxes.

”Did you think it would be as easy as it used to be, brother?” he asks, head tilting towards Hanzo but his expression hidden beneath the visor, ”That in a try or two, you’d be walking again?”

”I asked you for your advice,” Hanzo reminds him bitterly, ”And you gave me none.”

”I did give you advice. Stand up. There is no trick to it - you have to keep trying until you figure it out.”

Without giving him the chance to prepare, Genji pushes up against his body and brings him back on his feet.

”Again,” he commands, and instinctively, Hanzo puts his feet on the ground.

They slide, and then the ankles fail again - he falls against Genji, whose grip of him slips. The knee guards collide against the floor with a hard knock, protecting the limbs inside, and Hanzo catches his fall with his hands, finding himself on the ground on all fours. He’s shaking again, his senses overloaded with the hard knocks communicating into him through the artificial limbs, and Genji steps away from him, leaving him there on his own. Hanzo’s nails bend into the floor; he’s never felt quite as humiliated, quite as weak as he does now.

”Good,” Genji says quietly, ”This is good.”

Hanzo’s gaze jumps towards him, but there’s no reading him with his mask on. For the first time in Genji’s presence, fear floods into Hanzo’s system as he watches him, expecting him to move, trying to figure out his intentions from the stillness of his cyborg body that now shows no human part: he looks like he’s made of nothing but metal, and as he looks back down at Hanzo, it’s easy to think that there’s no human left inside him at all. Subconsciously, Hanzo’s eyes mark up the distance between himself and the Storm Bow, but it’s behind Genji’s leg, he can’t reach it, nor can he reach his arrows. Noticing this, Genji lets out a short laugh.

”Afraid of me, brother?” he asks calmly.

”What do you want?” Hanzo asks, leaning his weight back until he’s sitting on the floor on top of his prostheses, his vision sparkling with lights as the nerves in his legs overload again.  
There’s pain - he can barely hold himself from shaking again as he bears through it, yet refusing to crawl on the floor like an animal.

”You know what I want,” Genji sighs.  
Silently, he kneels in front of Hanzo and takes the same pose as him, and for a minute, they look like they’re seated for a cup of tea.  
”I want you to stand up.”

A shiver of warmth spreads back into Hanzo’s body. Tensely, he nods at Genji, and then he lifts his hand and presses it into the mattress of his bed, pushing hard to get back up again. Genji watches him, still far enough that Hanzo wouldn’t be able to reach him if he tried, and he stays silent, even as the older brother lands on his knees again, gasping.

”Again,” he commands, and when Hanzo fails again, he repeats it.

It seems to go on forever. Every time that Genji tells him to stand up, Hanzo tries, and every single time, he fails. All the while his brother sits on the floor, his hands resting over his lap, and watches him patiently. Inside the prostheses, Hanzo’s knees are starting to ache; it’s a distinctive sensation through the stings of pain stabbing at his nerves every time he pushes his legs to work, and it seems to reside inside his bones more than in his flesh. He doesn’t complain, however - he holds back even the growls of pain that climb up his throat every time his legs hit the floor again, every time he slips because his ankle refuses to hold underneath him anymore and his knee bends into an unnatural position, the suction inside the prosthesis pulling at it until it feels like it’s about to break. It reminds him of the dojo, of his swollen, throbbing fingers after the slaps of wooden practice swords against them when he failed his guard, and his mind slips into that same state as it does when he trains, distancing him from the pain and the exhaustion that floods his body. And then, finally, he finds himself kneeling with one foot flat on the floor, the ankle shaking but keeping his weight, and he kicks up with it before it betrays him again. He lands on his face on the bed, then keeps pushing until he’s far enough on the mattress to sit up. His body feels sweaty but cold, and his heart is racing like he’s ran a marathon, but then Genji’s there beside him, and he feels his fingers briefly brushing over his own as the man sits beside him on the bed and nods with approval.

”I think that’s enough for one night,” Genji tells him.

”No,” Hanzo breathes out, ”I’m not done yet.”

”You’re too exhausted to keep going, I can see it, and I cannot wait for you anymore; I have to go back to keep watch, Hanzo. This is enough. Get some sleep.”

With that, he stands up and walks back to the stairs. There, he turns one more time to face his brother, who sits on the bed, his legs limp and strengthless against the floor.

”You can do better,” he says.

The lights turn off after him, then turn back on when Hanzo’s back hits the bed. Every part of him aches, but it’s nothing in comparison to the disappointment he feels with himself.


	10. Connections

* * *

 

Genji doesn’t go down into the dormitory again even though Angela asks him if he wants to keep her company while she removes the stitches from Hanzo’s legs. Instead, he heads out to town alone, and waits at the side of the airport under a surprisingly unforgiving morning sun. The flight is late, but he doesn’t mind it - he’s barely slept, so the chance to rest his eyes as he sits underneath the shade provided by the terminal comes as a welcome break. Once, a guard stops before him to grant a long, disapproving look at him and especially the two blades sheathed over his back, but beyond giving him a polite greeting and a modest apology, Genji doesn’t bother to acknowledge him. A few minutes later, another guard stops by him and asks him to leave: he picks himself up and wanders off the premises, finds another wall and slumps against it instead.

Finally, the flight arrives. The noise is enough to alert Genji to it, but when he stands up to get closer again, he spots a small girl sitting in the shade watching him. The girl pouts when he turns his visor towards her, sinking deeper into her hiding hole. Genji smiles behind his mask and crouches slowly back on the ground to her level, and he reaches out his hand towards her, palm upright and fingers relaxed.

”You’re curious. It is not a bad thing,” he says, and she seems to startle at being addressed.

Genji lets his arm rest over his knee.

”Where do you live?” he asks her when she neither moves nor says anything.

The girl’s eyes visit the street behind her back quickly, betraying her answer although she doesn’t seem willing to tell it to him in words.

”I see.”

A breeze throws the girl’s dark hair over her tan face, and she wipes her curls away with both her chubby hands, her round, black eyes staring at him intently.

”Are you an omnic?” she asks him, squinting.

”No,” Genji tells her, ”Not quite.”

”What are you?”

”Something between a man and machine. I have not figured it out yet myself.”

”You sound funny.”

Genji chuckles.  
”I’m not from around here.”

”Did you fly here?”

”Yes. Have you ever been in an airplane?”

”No,” the girl says, sounding dismissive.  
She steps a little closer, giving him a very suspicious look, but when Genji doesn’t react, she decides to walk all the way up to him. Her small body is still tense and ready to flee at the slightest sign of danger - it makes her appear like a chubby rabbit, and Genji finds himself suddenly very fond of her. When she’s close enough, she quickly pokes him in the side, then sprints backwards a few steps before spinning around again to watch his reaction.

He tilts his head at her, then settles on his knees on the ground instead, letting his hands rest on his lap.  
”Like I said,” he tells her quietly, ”it’s alright to be curious.”

He’s forgotten about the plane and Jesse McCree. He’s forgotten about Hanzo, too; the only thing he really cares about is this little girl so desperately trying to figure out where he belongs in her world, as if her satisfaction could bring him closer to the same revelation. She moves closer again, biting her lip, and finally plops down on the ground before him. Her small hand reaches to touch his knee, then his thigh, and from there, her fingers climb over his hand and she grasps it, turning it over. She closes his fist, then opens it finger by finger, examining the joints closely and drawing her fingertips over the padding on the undersides of his fingertips. She pushes her finger inside the channels leading underneath his armour where his shurikens lay hidden, then tries if she can lift the plate, but when she can’t, she leaves it alone soon enough. Finally, she brings up her hands to grab his face, and Genji guides her fingers to the mechanism keeping his mask together, presses them in, and helps her pull off the visor. A soft gasp leaves her when she sees his maimed face, but then she tilts her head and touches the bridge of his nose visible from underneath the rest of his mask and nods with satisfaction.

”You’re Chinese,” she says confidently.

”Japanese.”

”Where’s that?”

”A little to the east from China; you weren’t that far off.”

She nods again. She crawls a little closer still and reaches for the handle of the wakizashi tied around Genji’s waist, but with a small, effortless movement, Genji twists it out of her reach and takes her hand, pushing it back.

”You shouldn’t touch that,” he tells her.  
As he does so, he spots movement from the street behind them. A woman stops there, her hands suddenly fisting. Her black hair is curled like the girl’s, and her tense yet round features look remarkably like hers if she was twenty, thirty years older. A sound escapes the woman and she rushes towards them, grabs  the girl by her shoulders and drags her rather violently away from Genji, who carefully stands up, already knowing what’s coming next.

”What the hell are you? Get away from my daughter,” the woman hisses at him, trying to hide her struggling child behind her back.

Genji bows quietly; he keeps his eyes on level with the woman’s as he replaces his visor, but after she can’t see his eyes anymore, he lets them rest briefly over the screaming girl she’s trying hard to hold back.

”My apologies,” he says, ”She was curious, and I thought it would do no harm to answer her questions.”

”Leave, before I call the police,” the girl’s mother spits at him, backing away, ”Freak.”

Sighing, Genji mirrors her movements; he walks backwards for a moment, then lifts his hand to wave a goodbye to the girl, and with that, he’s gone. The building’s wall supports him as he moves around it, landing on the next street a wall of housing between himself and the angry mother. When he stands up, his chest aching uncomfortably, he stands facing a long stretch of a road leading back to the airport, and his purpose floods back into him: Jesse’s probably waiting for him. Swallowing, he picks up a light jog, ignoring the people who saw him scale a building and then never stopped staring at the half-machine oddity that suddenly appeared in their midst.

To hell with them, he thinks.

 

* * *

 

”Well, if it ain’t my old friend,” Jesse chuckles, pushing his shoulder off the terminal’s wall, ”You haven’t aged a day.”

”You don’t know that,” Genji laughs, ”You haven’t even seen me.”

”I can smell it. Come here.”

They hug: Jesse’s hold is as firm as ever, and Genji lets himself relax into it. Americans - they’ve got no sense of personal space. Today, it comes as a pleasant reminder.

”How was your flight?” Genji asks when they finally part.

Jesse adjusts the serape draped over his shoulders and chuckles.  
”Long,” he tells him as they start walking back towards the city, ”But not nearly as long as I’m used to, and I slept most of the way in.”

”I wish I’d had the luxury.”

”The conspiracy seems to be keeping you all quite busy,” Jesse points out, and Genji nods.

”We’re all putting in the work for twice or thrice the amount of people we’ve got,” he tells him, ”but as it is, you haven’t missed much - there’s only been one assassination attempt so far.”

”A what?” Jesse asks, turning a surprised look at him.

A weary laugh escapes Genji.  
”You’ll hear all about it,” he promises, ”but it’s a long story.”

”It’s a long walk, too,” Jesse points out, ”Tell me.”

And Genji does. It’s difficult - there isn’t much he can say openly in public, but they’ve been through enough cryptic conversations for Jesse to put all the pieces together.

”That’s interesting and all,” Jesse says once Genji’s done summing up the events of the past week, ”what you’ve said about Talon and the rest, but you haven’t told me how you’re holding up where it really matters.”

”I’m holding up just fine,” Genji assures him.

”The last time I saw you, you weren’t quite as well adjusted.”

”It was a long while ago, Jesse.”

”Really? I’m sorry but I’m not buying what you’re selling.”

”What do you want me to say?”

”What you really feel about this all. You’ve come face to face with the man who put you down this road, and all you have to say about him is... what, that he’s recovering steadily? No offense but I’m calling bullshit on this one, my friend.”

Genji sighs. He walks faster for a moment, but following up with the change in pace isn’t a task for Jesse. Together, they enter a bus running through the city; it’s filled to the brim with people, and there’s nothing much that Genji can say next to a bunch of old women loudly discussing their vacation and an omnic whose frame presses firmly against the side of his hip no matter how he tries to position himself. When they finally step out at the foot of the mountain, Jesse pokes him in the side with his elbow.

”It’s complicated,” Genji growls at him, shoving him an arm’s distance away.

”Of course it’s complicated. That’s what I wanted to hear. Do you want him to join us?”

Slowly, Genji nods.  
”I do,” he says, ”but I’m afraid that nothing will change if he does.”

”That would be bad, I suppose.”

”It wouldn’t just be bad for me,” Genji continues, ”It would be a burden for the whole team. We don’t need more tension, not after what happened.”

”So, you’re working to fix it, right?”

Behind his visor, Genji gives him a long stare. Then he sighs, his posture falling apart.  
”I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits.

”Now that’s what I call honesty,” Jesse chuckles.  
He wraps his arm around Genji’s shoulder, and they step up a flight of stairs towards the entrance of the military tunnels together.  
”Look, I don’t know your brother, but I do know you. You’re a determined ass of a man, and when you put your heart into something, there’s nothing that can stop you. I’m sure you’ll pull through.”

”You’re the first person to tell me I should work to fix it for my own sake, and not because the organization needs it,” Genji says.

”From a purely civilian perspective, Genji, I’ve heard enough to tell that you miss him painfully hard.”

Genji nods.  
”Thank you.”

”For what?”

”For having faith.”  
They enter the tunnel towards the Watchpoint before he continues.  
”Angela doesn’t think I should do it.”

”Really? Well, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised,” Jesse says, ”After all, I didn’t see what that bastard did to you, did I?”

”No,” Genji admits, ”but a part of me wishes... that she would stand behind me as I do this.”

”She stands behind you, I’m sure. She cares about you, that’s why she’s angry.”

Genji smiles. Sighing, he undoes his visor, letting Jesse look him in the eye for the first time.  
”I’ve told her I’ve forgiven him, but it’s always her that sees me falter in that decision.”

”So stop faltering.”

The tunnel crosses with another, and the moisture of the cold air inside the mountain caresses Genji’s scarred face.

”In all honesty, Genji, do you think you can trust him?” Jesse asks after a moment’s silence.

Genji nods.  
”I’ve seen the depth of his regret,” he answers, ”I know that it’s crushing him. But I don’t know if there’s enough courage left in him, Jesse; I don’t know if he’s strong enough to try again.”

”It scares you.”

”I don’t want to let go again,” Genji admits; it’s the most honest he’s been with anyone yet, and stating it makes him feel vulnerable. He thinks it through for a moment before deciding that he’s crossed the line already - it doesn’t matter if he keeps going. ”After I completed my mission, I went to the Shambali to learn to live with what I’d become. I learned to embrace myself as a cyborg, but I never learned to feel less incomplete. That part was never about my body, but rather, about losing my identity - I am a brother, Jesse, I was born to be one. All my life, I was taught that my place was beside Hanzo, and although I rebelled against my role, I never rejected him. When he rejected me instead, I didn’t know who I was anymore, and it has taken me until this day to find an answer to that question.”

”And what’s your answer?”

”I am the night, the north, the moon and the earth,” Genji speaks wearily, ”and my brother is the day, the south, the sun and the sky. One of us cannot exist in balance without the other - we need each other to be whole, and to find the peace that we lost when we first parted.”

”Well,” Jesse laughs, ”if he feels half as strongly about this as you do, I’m sure you’ll end up on the same side. Eventually.”

 

* * *

 

 

As Hanzo slips his prostheses on, Ziegler watches him with a closed expression. His legs feel sore and bruised, and he shivers a little when the sockets close up around them, anticipating pain not because of the nerves but because of the ache that already throbs at the stumps. The electrical prickling rushes up his leg and down the prosthetics, and he leans back, his eyes closed, until it passes; when he looks again, Ziegler is sitting on the chair.

”Anything you’d like to tell me?” she asks him.

He looks at her, unsure if she’s asking about his well-being or if she knows, or suspects, about the night before. Regardless of the answer, he shakes his head.  
”No,” he says, ”Not much has changed.”

She nods, then hands him the tablet she’s been holding. It shows a list of basic exercises for his leg, illustrated with sketches, to test the range of motion and responsiveness in his feet. He looks it over, then places the tablet on the bed beside him.

”I’d still like to talk while we go through this,” Ziegler tells him.

Hanzo nods.

”Go through each practice for about 15 seconds at a time, with five seconds inbetween phases. I’ll tell you if I need you to repeat anything, but based on the initial results we got yesterday, I don’t think it’s likely that we’ll find any problems with your compatibility. Working your way through the list will still help you adapt to the movement range and responsiveness of your prostheses, so I recommend that you memorize it and repeat it on your own time at least a few times each day.”

It feels ridiculous, but by now, Hanzo’s getting used to feeling that way. He rolls his ankles idly for fifteen seconds, then pauses, after which the list tells him to repeatedly straighten and bend them instead. Ziegler watches him, at first quietly, but once he’s been going at it for a good minute or so, she finally starts talking again.

”Have you noticed any side-effects from your new medication?” she asks.

”Nothing that I wouldn’t survive.”

”But some small things, perhaps?”

Hanzo tilts his head, his eyes staring intently at the tips of his feet as he bends them down.

”A minor headache,” he tells her, his voice hollow, ”Some nausea, and it takes me a while to wake up properly.”

”You should notice these effects passing in a couple weeks. What about your mood? I’m not expecting any positive results yet, but maybe you’ve noticed something.”

Hanzo hesitates. The dream he had the night before - he doesn’t know if it was organic, or if it was brought to him by the medication. Remembering it chills him to the bone, a flood of adrenaline charging him at the very thought of it, but instead of telling her about it, he shakes his head.

”I feel the same as before,” he says.

Ziegler nods. She sips her coffee and watches his relaxed feet for a second. Something bothers her, and Hanzo can see the internal struggle reflecting on her tense expression; he watches her watching him and waits for it to conclude. At last, she turns her gaze back to him, and something in her has shifted.

”Unofficially,” she starts, ”I’d like to talk about something else. Personally, as myself as Genji’s friend to you, not as a doctor to a patient.”

Hanzo’s lips part, and a small ”ah” passes through. Truthfully, while he hasn’t expected this, he’s not surprised, either. He can even feel a sliver of relief pushing through; so far, there’s very little he knows about what goes on behind Ziegler’s professional approach to him. All he knows is that she’s kept her distance for good reasons. The promise of getting answers to what she really thinks about him not as a doctor but as an individual makes him feel, if anxious, also curious. He nods at her, pausing the exercise; if they’ll talk, he wants to talk without distractions.

”I try to treat you fairly, Hanzo. I’ve done my best to provide you the care that you need, and I promise that despite the things I will say to you now, I will keep doing exactly that.”

”I understand. I also understand that you do not like me, and I do not expect you to,” he tells her.

It seems to surprise her. She looks at him examiningly as she brings up her cup to her lips again, likely to hide her reaction to his words. He looks away to give her space, but from the corner of his vision, he can see her thinking.

”How could I?” she asks then in a tone that expects no answer from him, ”I’ve seen death in my life, and I’ve seen suffering. Much of it has been caused by one human being to another, and most of it by sentient, thinking beings to others of their kind. But rarely have I seen anything that would compare to what you did to your brother, and I cannot understand it, no matter how hard I’ve tried. I cannot understand what would drive someone into such blind violence not in self-defense, and not towards an enemy, but his own kin. When I look at you I’m afraid, because I’ve seen what you are capable of.”

Hanzo nods. He doesn’t have much to add to it, but his body feels hollow, and he welcomes the pain that keeps sparkling alive in his legs and latches onto it with his full consciousness.

”When I first met Genji, I didn’t know if he’d live through the night. I did my best with him, but my best, for the first time in my career, was nowhere near good enough. I had to build him again, and I had to do it part by part as more and more of him died when his body couldn’t hold against the injuries it had sustained. This went on for a year; every time I thought I’d made it stop, the damage you’d done to him would find another way to surface again, each time taking more of him with it. I, too, did something to him that no human being should do to another, but Genji is stronger than anyone else I’ve known, and somehow, he survived it. He’s hated me for what I put him through. At times, he’s hated me more than he could even hate you, because while you were the one who caused all of this, I was the one who forced him to live with it, and because you’re his brother, and I was just his doctor.”

She’s speaking in a detached tone, one that Hanzo’s heard before while listening to others talk of death and suffering on a scale that the human mind can’t comprehend. He’s sat through reports from men who used to call his father _oyabun_ , who’d lost friends and family fighting for them or worse, who’d taken a life themselves, who’d held the blade that had gutted someone they didn’t even know, or someone that they had dearly loved and sacrificed for the clan’s sake anyway. He suspects his own voice has held that tone, although he can’t remember it; it’s been a lifetime since he could last feel remorse or shock in the face of death. Now, all it does is give him pleasure - the moment his arrow connects with the heart or the brain of an enemy is the one time that he can still feel a rush of joy at being the one still breathing air.

”Your brother,” she continues after a stillness between them, ”is unlike anyone I’ve ever met in my life, Hanzo. His ability to survive the impossible and still see the best in every situation is a gift that most people could benefit from, but it’s his unparalleled capacity for forgiveness and love that scares me. In my honest opinion, you don’t deserve it.”

Hanzo smiles. His chest is hurting strangely, like someone’s carved out all the flesh from within him without leaving a visible cut upon his skin. His throat’s closed up on him and he doesn’t feel like he could swallow even if his mouth wasn’t as dry as if coated with fine sand.

”I do not,” he replies to her quietly.

”And yet, Genji is hellbent on granting both to you. I’ve tried to tell him what I think but he’s made up his mind, and I have to respect him. Because he wants to forgive you, and because you are someone that he loves as deeply as he does, my opinion of you no longer matters. Which is why I want to make peace.”

Hanzo lifts his gaze. He examines her for a long while, taking his time to read the pain in her blue eyes and the determination that otherwise overpowers her expression. She holds out her hand towards him, a deep breath filling up her frame.

”I want to forgive you,” she says, ”because I want only the best for my friend. As long as I hate you for what you did to him, it’ll continue straining my relationship with him. More than that - in the future, we might have to fight on the same side, and I was there, Hanzo, to see what internal conflict can do to a team. I refuse to be the one who cannot let go of her own resentments in the face of the greater good. I refuse to let my anger control me. If this is what Genji wants, and what is best for the future of us all, then I can start over with you.”

A breath escapes Hanzo, its sound something caught between the tones of a gasp and a shaky exhale. He’s tense, his hands rest fisted over his lap, and his eyes flicker between Ziegler’s outstretched hand and the willpower that shines through her expression. The sincerity of it startles him: there’s no pretense behind the gesture she’s offering him, and that, more than anything, scares him.

”I have not yet made the decision to follow him,” Hanzo tells her, his voice surprisingly fragile and teetering on the edge of breaking.

”It doesn’t matter. Whether you leave or stay, Genji’s feelings and loyalty towards you won’t change. But you’d be stupid not to take his offer. I doubt you’ll ever find someone who has the capacity to love you this fiercely, or someone who will be half as loyal to you, because your brother truly is one of a kind - a gift like that should never be wasted.”

She turns her palm up, and shaking, Hanzo lifts up his own. He presses it over hers and feels her slender fingers sealing his much wider hand inside her grip, and she holds it tightly, a flash of emotion crossing her face. He swallows through the desert in his throat and nods.

”I know it,” he says quietly, ”and that’s why I hesitate.”

”If you’re waiting to earn it, you can stop now,” Ziegler says, their hands parting, ”None of us deserves it, but he’s offering it to you for free.”

She sips her coffee as if to mark the end of the conversation, then places the empty cup on the tray behind her.

”Get back to the exercise,” she says, her voice both tired and determined, ”The response from your limbs is looking good so far.”


	11. An adventure

* * *

 

After Ziegler leaves, Hanzo settles against the wall with a bottle of water and waits. He repeats the series of exercises over and over for an hour’s time, his mind emptied, before he’s finally certain that no one else is going to visit him that day - no one else but Genji, unless he’s mistaken about his brother’s intentions. Slowly, carefully, he moves closer to the edge of his bed, places his feet on the floor and tries leaning weight onto them. The dormitory’s silence presses against his ears, and he realises how tired he is of it, of being locked inside the bunker-like building with nothing but a book and whatever it takes to sustain him, of being tied to his bed, of being crippled and helpless and useless. A growl escapes him as he pushes himself off the bed, and for one exhilarating moment, he’s standing.

Then, just as soon, his plated knee guards hit the floor so hard that he can feel the impact all the way up in his spine. One hand on the floor, he closes his eyes and breathes in before leaning back over his knees and placing his hands on the beds on his both sides. Kicking at the floor, he manages to get himself off it with much less effort than the previous night, but when he sits on the mattress again, his skin still feels sticky with sweat underneath the light fabrics of his clothing. After giving himself little time to breathe, he pushes up again. His heels refuse to share his weight with the balls of his feet, and for a second, he concentrates too hard on leaning it forwards. This time, he collapses on the bed beside his own, the impact driving a gasp out of him.

”I can do better,” he breathes against the sheets, ”I _must_ do better.”

Using the bed as a crutch, he crawls up on it, turns around and forces himself back on his feet. There’s nothing to grasp - nothing that could help him stay upwards - and this time, his legs simply give in again, as if they weren’t built to provide him with the support he needs. Once more on his knees on the floor, he wipes off his hands from the fine dust caught to his skin and turns around, looking for anything that could balance him up.

The table. Just across another row of beds, there’s Ziegler’s table and the computer set upon it. If he could get to it - if he could take one step at a time, and then use the beds to get back up again, he might be able to reach it.

This time, he takes his time to recover. He’s done it before at the dojo, many times, his mentor standing above him, sword held at the ready to beat him down once more, just waiting for him to climb back up to face it. Each and every time, even if in pain and bruised, he eventually made it through. There was always that one last time when he stood up and finally countered the blow that had hurt him before, and despite the swelling of his knuckles, the broken skin and the shaking of his spent body, he could always feel pride in those moments. Now, he pulls up his right leg from underneath him, leaning his weight onto his left knee, and balances the sole of his foot against the floor as steady and straight as he can. Hands on the beds on his both sides, he uses his arms to get up, and for one moment, his foot holds underneath him again. He leans weight onto its front, lifts his other leg, and falls one step forwards.

The table is still as far away as it was a moment ago, but Hanzo counts this as the first step he’s taken.

Now, he can take another.

 

* * *

 

”Angela, beyond getting shot, I’ve done nothing this entire week,” Genji sighs, a crooked smile on his face behind the mask covering his nose and jaw, ”I can stay awake to look at some screens for a few hours two nights in a row. Who’s going to need me up tomorrow, anyway?”

”You want to do my shift,” Angela repeats, her eyes squinted.

”I want to let you rest. You’ve barely had any sleep the entire time you’ve been here - all thanks to me and mine. Let me do this for you so that I can feel that I’ve done something for you in return.”

Genji knows the offer tempts her, but she doesn’t give up easily. Her eyes are sharp when she stares in his, and Genji, although he can feel the smallest flicker of guilt within him at cheating her, tries to answer her gaze and look innocent while doing so. Finally, Angela’s expression softens, and she shudders, hand lifting to cover a yawn.

”You’re right,” she says then, ”I’m exhausted. Fine; you win this time, but only because you don’t look tired, and I know you already had two cups of coffee over supper. You’ve planned this, and I don’t know what to do to make you back down.”

Relieved, Genji grins.  
”I’ll see you in the morning, Doctor Ziegler.”

”Watch yourself, Shimada.”

Angela turns around and pushes her ID code into the elevator’s holographic input system. When the doors open, she looks at him, smiling a little.

”I don’t know what you’re planning, but I know you’re up to something. Just make sure it doesn’t come back to me,” she says.

Genji tilts his head guiltily.  
”You have a sharp eye,” he says in an apologetic tone, ”but this is something that I have to do.”

”Of course. Well - good night, Genji. I expect there won’t be a Talon invasion to break me out of my hibernation this time.”

”I’ll make sure that you can sleep the night through. Good night, Angela.”

She enters the elevator, and with that, the Watchpoint goes quiet. They share a look as the doors slide closed, but once she’s gone, Genji turns and takes a look around the conference room. The only properly lit area inside it is the meeting table itself in the middle: the boxes, the portable stove, the coffee maker, the mini fridge and all the other things they’ve brought in there to serve their needs after the liquidation of the crew lounge’s equipment are nothing but vague shadows now that Winston has turned off the daytime lighting. It’s almost eerie in the night when no one else is there. As Genji makes his way through it back towards the launch area directly beside the conference and office building, he hopes that Jesse’s already asleep in their now shared makeshift bedroom - if he isn’t, he might have some questions for Genji when he slips back in at dawn.

The ocean rumbles peacefully between Africa and Europe, its vast mass reflecting the lights of a passing cargo ship. Genji turns his back towards it, the smell of seaweed filtering through his mask, and takes course towards the dormitory. The Watchpoint’s sturdy buildings that grow directly out of the mountain's side look like nothing but vast black shadows on his both sides. The night is starry, save for the cloud front approaching over Morocco, and he enjoys the quiet and the fresh air before entering the next building. His ID flashes green light on the entrance to the crew quarters and the door slides out of his way; the corridor behind it is still lit with the lights shining out of the room itself. Genji enters it quietly, although anyone inside would have already heard the door opening - instinctively, his hands move to his sides, ready to pull out a blade should he need one.

When he stands in the doorway, he nearly does grab his katana. It takes him a moment to convince himself that he shouldn’t, his eyes locked up on his brother sitting relaxedly on top of Angela’s table with a half-emptied bottle of water by his side and his bow and his quiver strapped around his body. Hanzo smiles at him in that annoying, peacefully superior manner he used to as a sixteen-years-old after beating Genji in kenjutsu - often quite literally - and Genji squints at him, taking the first step inside the room. He’s still one stairway above Hanzo, and at least his upper ground still lends him a sense of control over the situation.

”So, you finally decided it was time to get up,” he says in a quiet, rather judgemental tone.

”Quite so,” Hanzo replies calmly; there’s a faintly visible cut on the side of his mouth, and a reddish-purple bruise forming underneath it just above the line where it disappears underneath his facial hair.

”But can you walk?” Genji asks him, tilting his head to emphasis the lazy curiosity in his voice - it’s masking a whole lot of uncertainty inside him, as he hadn’t been prepared to find his brother standing yet.

Dealing with Hanzo while he’s bound to his bed is one thing, but dealing with him in equal standing is different. Suddenly, every doubt that Genji’s ever had in his mind is visiting his consciousness, from Lena’s concerns about Talon’s intentions for Hanzo to his own lingering fear of the man who once disemboweled him over the floors of their home. He forces those fears out of his eyes, wishing he had his visor to cover him like he did the night before.

While he's struggling, a hint of a smile crosses Hanzo’s features. It looks tired and worn but throughoutly satisfied, and with it still bending his lips, he lets his body slide gracefully off the table, his prosthetics taking hold of the ground and supporting him upright. The walking part is less graceful, but Genji has to admit it’s impressive, especially after seeing him fall repeatedly while trying to do nothing but stand a mere twenty-two hours earlier. He nods to himself and climbs down the stairs to stand in front of his brother. His heart is racing when he moves up to Hanzo, and when they stand with barely another man’s width from each other, he can’t help the shiver that runs through him.

He’s always considered himself a little shorter than Hanzo, thanks to a lifetime of standing various distances below him both in the physical sense and status, but the truth is that they’re nearly the same height, and Genji’s not quite sure which one of them stands above the other. In physique, Hanzo’s sturdier than he is and has always been, both because of his better appetite and his tendency to build muscle more easily, while Genji’s always been rather petite and limber, and even now that his body’s nearly entirely covered with metal plating, he remembers what it was like to wrestle his brother and how much he used to ache after being taught what it meant being the smaller one. Certainly, his build comes with advantages, too - he’s always been faster than Hanzo, and to his defense, he learned to snake out of most of his brother’s holds quite early on, probably saving himself a few broken bones in the process, but when it comes to brute force, Hanzo had always come on top.

Instinctively, Genji lifts his head a little to retain the upper ground he just walked down from. Hanzo does the same; they examine one another quietly for a moment before Hanzo lowers his chin again, the smile on him growing more crooked to the right side.

”You promised me an adventure,” he says in a voice that makes Genji’s heart skip a beat; it’s tone is warm, conveying a request, a wish. ”I consider myself prepared, as far as I can be.”

”Have you tried walking up the stairs?” Genji asks him, ignoring the lingering question.

Hanzo gives the stairway a calculating look, then shakes his head.

”Well,” Genji huffs, ”There’s the first adventure.”

”Will you walk them with me?”

”Of course.”

Genji turns. His whole body tenses when he does so, still regarding Hanzo as a potential enemy, but he refuses to let his fear make him look back, and instead, he stands still until Hanzo’s there beside him. He takes a glance at his brother, but Hanzo’s concentrated on the task before them, and the intensity of his expression makes Genji huff softly - yes, he remembers this from the countless times he saw Hanzo prepare himself for a challenge before. He remembers it particularly well from one of the few last years they spent with their father, when Hanzo had attended a clan meeting for the first time not as an observer but as the heir and his father’s representative. Before the meeting, Hanzo had spent half an hour throwing up from nerves, and Genji had stood leaning to the doorway with his hands crossed over his chest without speaking, giving him the bare minimum of brotherly support by showing that he’d stand with him through whatever. When Hanzo had finally gotten back on his shaking legs, he’d had this same look in his eyes, like a man whose life depended on the next few moments that would come. They’d walked to the meeting together, side by side behind their father as he entered, and they’d sat on his right side, Hanzo beside him and Genji beside Hanzo, each seated according to their rank and purpose in the clan. He’d survived that meeting. He would likely survive the stairs, too.

”The worst part is trying to balance on one foot,” Genji tells him as he steps up the first two stairs ahead of him, ”Don’t try to get it over quickly. Pay attention to where your center is, and move it together with the leg you want to support you next. Don’t lift it up if you don’t feel certain that the other will hold you. Then, once you have your other foot on the stair, don’t put weight on top of it before you’ve reassessed your balance.”

Hanzo nods, the gesture short and small. Genji watches him sway his weight from foot to foot, trying to figure out which one he can rely on more, until he finally lands it over his left side and tries to lift his other foot up. He manages to get it a couple centimetres off the ground before landing it back down again, his balance swaying dangerously; the next time he attempts it, he hovers it above the floor for a good five seconds before lowering it once more. He breathes in, closes his eyes, shifts his weight twice more and then, with a silent breath leaving through his barely parted lips, he moves his right foot on top of the first stair. Before he realises it, Genji can already see what comes next - too concentrated on winning the first fight, he moves directly into leaning his weight over the foot now on top of the stair, and tries to pull himself on it. It fails under him, but before his shin can crash against the stairs, Genji grabs a hold of him and supports him back up with his shoulder. He feels Hanzo’s breath against his body when he lets out a gasp of surprise; together, they pull through the next couple steps, and the further up they get, the less Genji assists him. On top of the stairs, Hanzo’s weight leaves him completely; he looks down with a critical look on his face before turning to Genji.

”Again,” he says.

”Going down is worse,” Genji warns him, but doesn’t try to stop him.

Hanzo nods at him again the same way he did before walking up. He puts his foot on the first step and lowers himself onto it carefully, and very slowly, he makes his way down three. In the middle, he stops, and Genji can see him tense up - he tries to say something to convince him to abandon the idea, but before he can speak, Hanzo’s already jumped. He lands, surely enough; the drop is much faster than it should have been, but to Genji’s surprise, his legs hold him upright, and despite the fact that his knees hit the floor again, he manages to straighten himself back into a crouching position before falling over. Quite proudly, Hanzo picks himself up again and turns towards Genji, his expression hard.

”It was not harder,” he tells him, and Genji’s mouth twitches behind his mask.

”Very well, brother.”

 

* * *

 

It seems as if it’s been years since Hanzo last smelled fresh air. The moment they leave the hall behind and enter the starlit midnight scene outside, a weight lifts off his shoulders. He stops and looks up, examining the stars above, and his fingertips run lightly over Genji’s plated arm to stop him there too.

”These are the same stars that shine upon Hanamura,” he says.

Genji shifts; he lifts his gaze up towards the sky, and for a moment, they’re both quiet.

”The last time I was in Hanamura, I did not look at the stars,” the younger brother speaks thoughtfully, ”but I recall it being a clear night.”

Hanzo nods.

”A wasted opportunity,” he says in a fond voice, ”As boys, we would always take the time to look above us.”

”Not always,” Genji chuckles, ”But very often. Too often. Remember all those nights we spent on the rooftop, not speaking, just watching the stars?”

”And the city,” Hanzo adds, ”The way it rested below our feet, like a blanket full of fireflies.”

”Or the times that we did talk?” Genji says - his voice is warm, a little teasing, and Hanzo glances at him, finding himself with a smile as well.

”I think those might have been the only times that we did,” he admits.

Genji nods.

”Walk with me,” he says and starts moving forwards again.

They walk up a gentle hill. Here and there, a dim yellow light shines, embedded into the walls or the track that runs in the middle of the path upwards. Most of Hanzo’s concentration goes into keeping him upright, and often enough he still ends up hitting the tip of his foot into the concrete, or one of his legs suddenly fails underneath him when he forgets the specific manner in which he has to lean upon it to make it carry him, but it’s impossible to ignore the night’s beauty even though his body keeps his mind preoccupied. A light breeze pushes through his hair, and he tilts his head and closes his eyes for a brief moment to feel its caress. Beside him, Genji lets out a sound that resembles a chuckle closely enough to bring Hanzo out of it again.

”Have you ever been to Gibraltar, brother?” Genji asks him as they stop to rest in the middle of the climb up.

”Never,” Hanzo tells him, ”I’ve heard that you can see the shores of Africa from here.”

”You can,” Genji confirms, ”I’m not sure whether you can see it now, but in the morning, if it isn’t raining too heavily, I suggest that you climb up to see it.”

The thought of having the freedom to go as he pleases makes Hanzo’s breath catch in his chest. He hasn’t thought about it - hasn’t considered it a possibility - but true enough, days before, Ziegler had already told him that he wasn’t their prisoner, and that he was free to do as he wanted, even leave if he’d choose to. Finally, it seems he’s reached the crossroads that Genji’s set up for him. He looks at his brother and feels a strange weight, a pressure, landing back in his chest despite the openness of the space they stand on, and notices that Genji’s looking at him too with an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment, Hanzo feels as if he should give him his answer now, but he still hasn’t made up his mind about it. To his relief, Genji doesn’t seem to feel the same way.

”Here’s a challenge for you, Hanzo,” he says, a playful spark returning to his dark eyes, ”Race me up the rooftop and onto the walkway crossing between these two buildings.”

He gestures vaguely to their left and up ahead, marking the two buildings looming above them against the dark night and the light stone of the mountain embracing them. Hanzo raises his brows in surprise, but Genji just shrugs.

”Better get started,” he says and sprints off.

It takes Hanzo a second to get his feet off the ground, but then he’s running. Each step feels terrible, his balance and his trust in his legs both off by a mile, yet it doesn’t stop him. He throws himself towards the wall and grabs the first ledge that pokes out enough to get a grip of, and he kicks his foot into the surface and forces it to carry him upwards. The next step slips, and air escapes his lungs as his stomach and his still sore ribs hit the wall, but Genji’s too far up already, and he carries on before catching his breath. The ground vanishes beneath him, and the further he gets towards the flat roof, the more the wind pushes at him; finally, when he pulls himself up and over the last ledge and onto the roof, Genji already ahead of him and scaling an obstacle of pipes towards a destination that Hanzo can’t see, he’s happy that he’s tied his hair back to keep it off his face. When he sprints after Genji, however, his leg gives in again, and he crashes hard on his knees. Genji stops, his feet securely balanced upon the orange pipes, and he chuckles at Hanzo as he climbs back upright.

”Getting old, Hanzo?” he asks, then vanishes from sight.

Growling, Hanzo goes after him; he lifts himself up and over the pipes with relative ease, then finds nothing to land on behind them, and his charge sends him right back on his knees on the walkway that Genji wanted him to race him to. The younger brother walks back to him and reaches out his hand, offering to pull him up.

”Didn’t think you’d have it in you,” he says, and Hanzo grabs his hand, letting him tug him up.

Hanzo’s about to respond when he realises where they stand. From the walkway, he can see the ocean: it spreads wide and clear below the cliff the Watchpoint stands on, its white sprays so far down that they look as if painted upon the waves. He squints, aiming his gaze towards the horizon, and there, if he’s not completely mistaken, the skyline draws a rugged black edge between itself and the ocean. It has to be Africa, he thinks; his eyes set upon it, he sits down on the walkway, and beside him, Genji does the same.

”This used to be my home,” Genji tells him after a moment of silence, ”after Overwatch took me in. I was stationed here for most of my commission.”

”Where did you go after you left here?”

”All over, like you did. I wanted to see the world in the hopes that it would show me my place in it. I never did find my place, but I did meet myself along the way, and learned to get along with it. That is my blessing. How about you, brother? What were you looking for?”

Hanzo stays silent for a while. The next drink, he wants to say; most the time, that’s what he’s been after.

”Death,” he answers then instead, ”I’ve been running after it like a mad dog chasing a bullet train.”

”I’m glad that bullet trains tend to be hard to catch.”

Their eyes meet, and then, Genji undoes the lower part of his mask, placing it on the walkway beside him. He’s smiling, but his smile seems sad somehow, like he’s remembering something that pains him.

”I’m sorry for taking your home from you,” he says then, and his words make Hanzo jolt with surprise.

”What?”

”I’m sorry for everyhing that I put you through,” Genji repeats, ”For all the pain that I’ve caused you. My crimes may seem irrelevant now, but I’ve wounded you, too. As a boy, I never once considered the pressure that my choices put upon your shoulders. I thought that you were impervious - that you were fated to succeed. Our father left very little choice for you, and I naturally expected that since you were such a perfect fit for your place in our world, nothing that I would do could touch you. I was never truly taught otherwise. You’re right; our father loved me, and he loved me too much. He gave me all the freedom that he denied you, and I was blind to the impact that my actions had on your reputation. I still didn’t see it when you gave me my ultimatum. Blindly, I chose to fight you instead for my freedom to do as I pleased, no matter the consequences.”

Hanzo’s quiet for a long time, and for most of it, he feels as if he’s choking. His eyes stay upon the horizon, and there’s no way he could look at Genji now, but Genji’s looking at him, as if unafraid of the impact of his words.

”No,” he finally says then, ”You do not get to apologize to me.”

Genji chuckles.  
”But I already did.”

”You were a boy,” Hanzo growls, turning a desperate look towards his brother, ”Nothing but a boy. Instead of taking my blade against my own brother, I should have found a better way. Our father always did. He would always protect you, Genji; you do not know the things that went on behind your back, you do not know the extent of how hard our father fought for your right to be who you wanted to be.”

”I was 25, Hanzo, old enough that I should have understood that the world didn’t revolve around me and my frivolous desires. My father may have loved me, but there is something that you’re not letting yourself consider.”

Genji shifts, turning more towards Hanzo as he speaks.

”I loved you, too,” he says then, ”and I still love you, Hanzo. You are my brother, and there should have never been anything that was more important to me than that.”

The ocean goes quiet. The steady rhythm of its waves against the Rock of Gibraltar fades into the background, each clash losing in volume to the beating of Hanzo’s heart inside his chest. He draws in a breath, then seems to be unable to let it out again: it resides inside him until it’s making him dizzy and adding to the pain in his chest, at which point, finally, he lets it out, and it betrays him by shaking, shuddering, and dying with a gasp.

”Don’t say that,” he finally manages to let out.

”Why not? Don’t you feel the same? Isn’t that why you left, why everything that you had no longer made any sense after I was gone? Isn’t that the reason to why you hold no grudge against me for taking my blade and cutting apart the legacy of our family that was bought with so much blood and death and suffering that our family name is still spoken in whispers, and why my worst crime in your eyes is to be someone that survived so long without you?”

”Our family died with you,” Hanzo says - it’s the only thing he can hang onto in the midst of so much that hurts him deeper than any bullet or blade ever could, ”There was nothing for me to return to. The clan that branded me their enemy means nothing to me.”

”And yet, it meant everything to you before,” Genji replies.

Hanzo turns his gaze down and swallows thickly. He can hear the ocean again, and a part of him wishes he could throw himself into it.

”All I want,” Genji says after letting him sit in silence for a few minutes, ”is that you let this go, Hanzo. Once and for all. I have; I accept the past, and you have to do it as well, or neither of us can move forwards. We’ve both made mistakes, and we have both learned from them, have we not?”

Hanzo lifts his gaze and turns it towards the ocean. He watches the white lines moving steadily across his vision, each marking the breaking point of an individual wave, and for a very long time, he’s still as a statue and just as tense, his head hurting and his eyes stinging with the tears that he can’t shed. His breath is still shuddering, but he tries to hide it by drawing in air as quietly and slowly as he can; the resulting shortage of oxygen inside him eventually makes him shift with discomfort, and he drops his gaze again.

”I cannot forgive myself,” he finally says.

”It is a rocky path,” Genji replies gently, ”but I want to walk it with you.”

”Every second I spend with you adds to the guilt that I bear. How can I accept what you offer me when I’ve done the unthinkable?”

”You already answered your own question - you forgive yourself. It is as simple, and as complicated, as that.”

Genji’s limbs carry him effortlessly as he stands up, and once more, he offers his hand to Hanzo. Hanzo takes it, but only hesitantly, and he stands up in a passive manner like his own decision in it matters less than Genji’s will for him to do so. It’s because of that passiveness that he doesn’t see the next thing coming before Genji already has a hold of him, and their bodies press together. The younger brother holds him firmly as if afraid that he’ll escape, but Hanzo doesn’t have it in him; instead, he presses his forehead against Genji’s shoulder and rests against him as if dead, his hands only slowly moving up and over Genji’s arms.

”I will follow you,” he says, his words muffled by the limited space between their bodies, ”if that is what you really want.”

Genji nods and holds him a little tighter still.

”That is all I want, big brother.”


	12. Dragons

* * *

 

Jesse McCree has a complicated relationship with sleep. At times, he could sleep for weeks, only rolling around to find the next sunny spot on his bed like a particularly oddly shaped and quite lazy cat. At others, he can’t keep his eyes closed, and the only thing that can give him rest is going underneath the stars. Tonight is one of those times, but what he doesn’t expect is walking straight out into a battle.

The very moment the door slides open, he can hear the sounds of it. There’s a clang of metal against metal, a gasping breath, then a wooshing sound and the thud of something heavy, a human being, landing from a high place. Then there’s a very peculiar sound that he’s only ever heard in Genji’s presence: the sound of a man climbing up a straight wall. Quietly, he reaches for his gun and crosses the doorway into the night. There’s a man he’s never seen in his life, dressed like a fantastical figure from a Japanese mural, standing in the middle of the clearing between the buildings. His bow is drawn, the arrow’s head shining a dimly visible light against the darkness, and he’s aiming it at the sky. Jesse can hardly register what he’s seeing when something falls down from there, right around the mark where the archer is aiming at: it seems to be a white ball of some sort, its parts reflecting the partially overcast sky’s light, and its blade shines in neon green, illuminating the mechanical hand that grips it.

Genji slashes with his weapon, but the archer standing beneath him dodges the strike, and Genji lands lightly on the ground where he stood before with another thud. The stranger backs up a few hasty steps and shoots an arrow, but Genji’s quicker; he bounces it with his blade, and it changes course, landing in the concrete ground with a sharp sound.

At times, with the help of his cybernetic body’s amplified abilities, Genji’s almost too fast to see. It takes Jesse a blink of an eye to lose him, and he has to look at the archer and where he’s aiming at to find out where the cyborg went. Genji's balancing on the walkway now, and in a flash, three shurikens cross the air towards the strange man, who steps aside in a manner that seems to convey his complete lack of fear in the face of the sharp objects that could easily take out an eye or, if he was particularly unlucky, his jugular veins. With little effort, he places himself between the shots, and Jesse can hear Genji growl as he bounces into air again, his katana flashing against the sky’s lights. The archer draws out another arrow. He says something in Japanese - it sounds arrogant - and shoots at Genji as he hits the ground, and even as what Jesse perceives to be at least a hundred arrows bounce all over from the spot that he landed at, Genji rolls effortlessly away from them, then deflects two directly into the wall next to Jesse’s head.

With a gasp, he moves back into the shadow, his gun now firmly in his grip. He doesn’t have the time to go and wake anyone up, but what he can do is join the fight. With a spin, he moves to the edge of the platform and aims his gun, but a glowing light circling the archer’s arm gets him to still where he stands. They’re not fighting now, it seems; Genji’s standing beside the archer as he draws his weapon, and when the arrow is shot, landing beside a rock on the cliff’s edge, Genji rolls underneath the glowing lights seemingly spawning after it, and as two gigantic dragons form out of those lights, his own weapon seems to summon a third one. Jesse lowers his gun and watches as Genji appears to dance underneath the ghostly beasts, and he sees them follow his movements until his blade sends them out to the sea. The archer steps beside him, and they stand side by side watching the dragons fly away, then scatter into the wind like sparks.

His weapon now strapped to his belt, Jesse takes a couple steps back and leans to the wall beside the two arrows that nearly took him out.

”So,” he mutters into the darkness, ”It seems that the two of you did figure it out in the end.”

With that, he slips back inside through the still open door, thinking it best to leave this moment uninterrupted.

 


End file.
